


Atemporal

by Greenedera



Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: AU, Alternative Legends, Alternative finale for SkullBearer's fanfic, Cliffhangers, Dalamar's POV, Fate kicking people in face, Hatred, M/M, Raistlin's POV, Slash, Sorcerers thinking too much, Tasslehoff's POV, The love that moves the sun and all the other stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 104,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenedera/pseuds/Greenedera
Summary: Raistlin defeats Fistandantilus in Istar, but then is stuck in the Past and unable to return home. His secret lover, Dalamar, reaches him and they start a difficult journey home. This is an Alternate Finale to Skull_Bearer’s fiction “Temporal,” but you will be able to follow the story even if you didn’t read what came before. This tale is settled approximately during “Legends of Dragonlance” in an Alternate universe.
Relationships: Dalamar the Dark/Raistlin Majere
Comments: 32
Kudos: 24





	1. Dalamar and the Conclave

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Temporal](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/582562) by Skull_Bearer. 



> To enter into the mood of this story:  
> \- You can just start reading Chapter 1 below  
> \- You may read the following summary  
> \- If you already know Skull_Bearer's saga, you may re-read Temporal ch. 4, then jump here.  
> Skull_Bearer wrote "Ivory and Ebony series” between 2004 and 2009. Published "Temporal" ch. 1-4 in 2009, then stopped. I read it in July 2017 and needed to read the end of that narrative arc, even if I had to write it myself. I wrote the first scene below the same day I thought that, after 8 years, surely this fic was abandoned by its author. Then, in the first months of 2018, Skull_Bearer updated again "Temporal"... and how wonderful the new chapters were. For this reason, I waited 2 years before publishing this version, and with Skull Bearer permission. 
> 
> Summary of Skull Bearer’s Ivory and Ebony as it was in 2009 on Fanfiction.net:
> 
> Raistlin and Dalamar met by chance when they were young, outside Solace, and started a romantic relationship. After some years, they venture out on their own. Raistlin faced his Test of High Sorcery. After five years, Dalamar and Raistlin met again with the Companions in Solace and joined the group in the events narrated in the Dragonlance Chronicles. Then, in the Blood Sea of Istar, Raistlin abandoned everyone, even Dalamar.  
> Dalamar survived the shipwreck and discovered that this new "Raistlin Majere" was a completely different person from his loved companion, that the ancient archlich Fistandantilus had obscured Raistlin. Dalamar couldn’t know that - prisoner in his mind - Raistlin was still alive. However, nobody in the Conclave believed the dark elf, so Dalamar decided to avenge his lover, whom he believed was now dead: he became the apprentice of “Raistlin/Fistandantilus”. The wizard cursed him with a wound on his chest.  
> Fistandantilus set in motion his plan to become a god, sending Crysania to Wayreth, to be teleported to Istar, and in the meanwhile travelled to Istar in turn. He immediately went to kill the “Fistandantilus of the past”, in a violent magical clash. Young Raistlin seized that moment to use all his strength to hit his tormentor. Fistandantilus was annihilated.  
> Raistlin was once again the master of his young body and accessed the memories of what has happened in the past two years. 
> 
> Relationships between characters 
> 
> \- Raistlin and Dalamar have a romantic relationship.  
> \- Caramon loves his brother but hates Dalamar. Raistlin and Dalamar hate him because of past wrongs.  
> \- Crysania is an annoying bigot. Raistlin is not attracted to her but pretends to be so to manipulate her.

***

Dalamar lifted a hand to his chest, then he held back just in time before touching his wound. Instead, the dark elf took carefully between his fingers the cloth of his black robes and lifted it lightly, so that it did not weigh on the bandage covering the five bloody wounds left by the fingertips of his "Master." _This is yet another evidence that the creature is not Raistlin_ , the black-robed wizard thought wearily, the ghost of many sad emotions crossing his face. _He would never have done something like this. Not to me, not to anyone._

Ten hours had passed since the clash between the archmage and his elven “apprentice.” Dalamar had changed the dressing every two hours, but the injuries had not yet begun to heal, the bleeding to stop. It was pointless; all his actions were futile. That wound would never close, this was evident, and the pain would not stop. Those fingerprints burned steadily, like having five knives stuck in his flesh. The blood and pus flowing from them, soaking the bandages, caused Dalamar an unbearable itch. 

The dark elf leaned back into his chair, sighing. He glimpsed his reflection on the smooth surface of a silver bowl, and he cringed: his long black hair was disheveled, his triangular face gaunt, with dark circles under his slanted eyes. 

He caressed the book in his lap with his long fingers, barely keeping them from reaching his chest; again, he had been distracted by the pain and by the tight feeling in his heart. Dalamar had been a prisoner of that Tower for two years, since the beginning of his apprenticeship. The Monster that inhabited Raistlin’s body - the long dead archmage and Lich named Fistandantilus - had created a magical interdiction to prevent the elf from going outside or from entering most rooms. The Lich had enjoyed playing with him, like a cat with a mouse. 

Dalamar had come to the Tower of his own free will, and with the blessing of the Conclave: he was officially there to spy on “Raistlin Majere, the renegade wizard.” In truth, he had come to assassinate “Fistandantilus, the undead Lich,” the one who had possessed and killed the real Raistlin during the war of the Lance - Raistlin, Dalamar's long time lover and life-companion. They had met by chance on the road outside Solace ten years before, and ever since they had lived, studied and traveled together. Until the War - there something had happened to his beloved, and Another now was wearing his body. Dalamar's suspicion had been confirmed two years before in Wayreth during his own Test: there, he somewhat had an unexpected vision that opened his eyes on the truth, even if no one would ever believe him without evidence.

Two years before Dalamar had reached the Tower of Palanthas, hell-bent on his vengeance mission… but things had gone wrong from the very beginning. The Monster had welcomed the elf into the Tower, and his torment had immediately begun. Fistandantilus found amusing ordering Dalamar around, to do this or that, and then to punish him severely and torture him for his ‘failures.’ On top of that, the Tower was freezing, because _He_ didn’t need heat, and the building was inhabited only by the wraiths known as the Dead Ones. Just surviving, in that hell, was a daily challenge, and soon the elf had understood that killing Fistandantilus with his limited magical means was impossible. 

The only ally Dalamar had found in those years was a wraith: the ghost of Andras Rannoch, the wizard who had cast the curse on the Tower at the end of the Lost Battles. Andras hated Fistandantilus, although he also feared him with every ounce of his being. Despite his cowardice - and with the limitations of being an incorporeal specter - he had done much to support Dalamar.

After discovering the archmage's plan to become a god, Dalamar had done everything possible to stop him, yet he had failed. He had planned with Kitiara uth Matar - Raistlin's half-sister, Dragonlord of the Blue Army and long time acquaintance of the dark elf - to kill the priestess Crysania, since she was the keystone of the whole plan. But Kitiara had failed - indeed, she had unwittingly made the dark wizard's plan even easier. After that, out of options, Dalamar had tried to challenge his tormentor.

He had expected the clash to end badly, even if - for a moment - the dark elf had hoped he would be able to kill the body inhabited by the terrible Lich. It was torture to see the undead wizard's black soul shine every day through the eyes of the young man he had loved. Dalamar had tried also to stab, kick, strangle the archmage in vain.

The dark power of Fistandantilus was too vast. Not only had he defeated Dalamar easily, but his hand had burned a wound on his chest that had not yet healed: five fingerprints, dripping with a constant stream of blood. Five frosty and frightening fingerprints, from which the dark elf felt his life slowly slip away. When his lifeforce would be completely spent, he would not truly die: he would join the ranks of the Dead Ones and become a restless specter until the end of time. He would become a wraith - in some years, or in a matter of seconds: Fistandantilus now commanded how long he would live.

The archmage had left, undertaking his deed for godhood. He had abandoned Dalamar in Palanthas, sure that now the dark elf was a threat no more.

Dalamar could not remain locked in that tower. It was crucial for him to reach the Conclave of Mages. None of them knew that “Raistlin Majere” would travel to the past to enlarge his power or that the Revered Daughter of Paladine was willing to assist him in opening the legendary Portal to the Abyss... The Conclave absolutely had to learn about his plan to become a god and stop him.

Unfortunately, Dalamar had no means to leave, and so he had decided to find his own way. Without access to the most powerful books of magic - locked in Fistandantilus's study and protected by glyphs of warding too powerful for him - the dark elf had made good use of cuts and scraps among the poorest books, the only ones the Lich had allowed him to read.

The dark elf lowered his head, regarding the book in his hands. He was so desperately lonely, so lost. He was in an unsustainable situation, and yet, what could he do? Surrender? Accept his imprisonment? Wait for the Monster to come back without being able to stop him? In that case, he could lie down on the floor and let himself die like that. 

_No,_ he thought, gripping the edges of the book tightly, _even if it’s just to obtain my revenge, I won’t stand still. You already destroyed my life, Fistandantilus, but I won’t go without fighting._

***

It had taken Dalamar a lot of effort and some feverish creative thinking, but in the end, the teleportation spell he needed to escape from the Tower of Palanthas was ready. 

Hidden between those few selected spells, finally, he had found something useful. The terrible urgency and the perspective of the looming danger convinced him to try his luck: he started his spellwork with the evocation of a minor extraplanar creature. Dalamar had sacrificed many of the monsters locked in the dungeon under the Tower as payment to be allowed to contact Ladonna, Head of the Black Robes, despite the magical interdiction that prevented such spells to the Tower’s occupants. After this little success, he received from her only a short answer: a teleportation spell to Wayreth. 

Finally. 

Now, among the mighty walls of the Tower of High Sorcery of Wayreth, Dalamar was trying to resist the reassuring calling of the outer world. He was, after two years, finally free from his captivity in the Tower of Palanthas. 

But... he had not escaped for this reason, just as he had not accepted his apprenticeship for a simple reason.

He was the only person in the world who knew Fistandantilus's plans, plus he needed to complete his personal vengeance mission, for better or for worse. He couldn’t just flee now.

His arrival at the Tower of Wayreth had happened in the midst of a turmoil – they hinted something about the arrival of Caramon Majere and the Revered Daughter of Paladine, who had been terribly wounded. 

_Very well,_ the dark elf thought. He knew, of course, who attacked Crysania and why, having planned the attack with Kitiara only a few days before. _I arrived just in time._

He waited a long time while the Conclave took care of them, although he had already warned Ladonna of the urgency of the message he was carrying. When he was finally received, only by the three Heads of the Order, Dalamar was irritated, exhausted and determined not to show any hint of that.

The blue eyes of Par-Salian, head of the Conclave and of the White Robes, were distracted and he was caressing his white beard. Beside him sat Justarius of the Red Robes, his brown eyes darkened with some private concern. Ladonna of the Black Robes - skilled necromancer and expert in curses - was staring at him with crossed arms and impatiently tapping her foot.

Cold and composed, Dalamar expounded the discourse he had already prepared: brief and concise, intended to put as much information as possible in the shortest time. Then, if there were any further explanations to give, he would.

"During my apprenticeship I discovered much about the man who calls himself Majere. The ancient and well-known lich Fistandantilus entered Majere’s mind during his Test of High Sorcery, here in Wayreth..." - Dalamar raised his voice as Ladonna tried to interrupt him - "...and two years ago he completely obscured his host during the War of the Lance. His power is of the highest level, he is, after all, a wizard that lived in the Age of Dreams. He's crazy, but what he wants is within his powers: he will enter the Abyss to defeat Takhisis herself, take her place as God of Darkness and rule the world. He's powerful enough to succeed."

The three mages started to speak, overlapping themselves and shaking their heads.

"What you’re telling is totally absurd, apprentice"

".... Fistandantilus is just an historical figure!"

"... you have gone mad!"

"... I knew we shouldn't have trusted you…"

"Fistandantilus! He's almost a fairy tale!"

"... entering the Abyss is impossible!"

***

Some hours later, Dalamar was sitting on the windowsill of the room they had given him for waiting. Brooding. Seething.

During the altercation that had followed his brief speech Dalamar had untied the collar of his robe, showing the bandage - already soiled with pus - that covered his chest. He had even removed the dressing to reveal the open wounds under it.

"This spell was inflicted on me by Fistandantilus. It's a drain-life spell and bears His signature! Feel its magic, and you will understand!"

Ladonna had glared at him, with a look that seemed to say: "This should have been shown to me before, in private."

Par-Salian, the only one who seemed a little troubled by all this madness, had cast a spell to read the magical aura on Dalamar’s wound and then remained silent for several minutes. The other two mages had stared at him without speaking but the elf was sure they were telepathically confronting each other.

Finally, they had asked him what else he knew, and the dark elf had not held back. He had told them of Raistlin's Test, the strange episodes during the War of the Lance, the evidence gathered during his journey to Neraka, during his own Test and during his years at the Tower of Palanthas.

He had told them about the few details he knew about the Lich's crazy plan, about the role prepared for Crysania and about the important role the Concave could play in order to obstacle the archmage's plans.

He thought he had convinced them... instead he had discovered that he was a poor fool. 

A fool indeed.

In that very moment, while he was resting in that stupid room, those idiots were preparing the great Timespin spell that would send the Revered Daughter Crysania back in time. _This way she will be healed by the mighty King-Priest of Istar! Poor thing, poor little lady. She will be healed and saved by the Gods!_

_Idiots!_

_They were going to send her to Istar in the days before the Cataclysm, of all the places in all Time! To… heal a single woman! They had died by thousands during the War of the Lance, and now all of this… to heal her? On top of that... they declared that this line of action would stop Raistlin, because the True Clerics of the past would surely save her, and she would be out of Raistlin's reach. Surely! Of course! Why didn’t I understand that it is such a perfect plan?_

_Nonsense! Utter nonsense!_

_It seems a bad joke. The worst possible one. Why? Why didn’t they believe at anything I have told them? What did they have in their brains by all the demons of the Abyss_!

A short time after his meeting with the Heads of the Conclave, Ladonna's answers to Dalamar's questions had been very brief, - the woman was angry at him because she thought he had made her appear like a fool with his “ramblings”.

Ladonna had told him that she had not evaluated him well: he had been obviously not strong enough to play as the apprentice for Majere. His role had been to spy on him, find a way to stop the growth of his power, but the information he had gathered had been obviously false and spoiled by Majere's deception and by the curse on him - ah, no, they had no means to lift that curse and heal Dalamar's wound, sorry..

I _have not been strong enough. What does this bitch know of strength?_

“You are going to abandon all of this”, Ladonna had said while leaving. “You will be allowed to stay there some time to recover and to relay to someone else the few things you were allowed to learn in Palanthas. Then the Order will find you a suitable place to stay and spend your future years.”

“What are you going to do with the Revered Daughter?” Dalamar had asked her with a soft voice.

“None of your concern.”

_Wouldn't you like that..._

***

The energy crackled in the air. The room had to be large, but it was so full of magic that tendrils of light were seeping through the fissure under the door, illuminating the vast stone corridor.

Dalamar had discovered that the wizards of Wayreth were not only idiots, but also incompetent idiots. During the last two years, Dalamar had thought he had learned nothing, compared to the extraordinary mass of power of Fistandantilus. And yet... there it was: his invisibility spell had been powerful enough that all the wizards encountered until now had not noticed him.

He walked, unseen, through the halls of the Tower of Wayreth. Silent as death, he approached the door. Behind it he could hear the complex singsong of Par-Salian himself casting the great spell of Time-Journey.

Dalamar had no illusions: the head of the Conclave was powerful enough to be able to sense the elf's presence - despite the cloaking spell - if he entered the room. Dalamar would break in at the last second, and risk everything. If he failed, the consequences would have been harsh: maybe Par-Salian would not have killed him but Ladonna instead was not a lenient person, and she would probably have been pleased to add Dalamar to her little collection of ghouls.

Dalamar would enter in a hurry, at the last second available, and he would win or fail, at Nuitari’s will.

Then, unexpectedly and against all odds, the Black Robe found an unwitting ally. Oh, he had not seen this newcomer in two years, but although clothes, bags and even hairstyle were different, the elf recognized the kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot immediately... as soon as a white mouse took off a magic ring and returned to his natural form Just beside him. 

Tasslehoff could not see Dalamar, of course. Short and lean, the little bastard must have arrived to the Tower in company if Caramon, and of course the incompetent wizards of Wayreth had not been able to restrain him. How a kender could have come into possession of such a powerful ring as one to change into a mouse was beyond Dalamar's. The kender, once regained his original form, crouched behind the keyhole of the door, peering inside the room and muttering in excitement: "Luckily I arrived on time… they're waiting for me!"

Then Tasslehoff slammed open the door with enthusiasm, loudly exclaiming: "Hey, here I am! That first gentleman mage was a little rude to drag me away by the arm! But then I found this ring and _squit_! I became a mighty and fluffy white mouse and it was really exciting, almost as that time with the woolly mammoth..."

Dalamar, silently thanking the Black Moon , loomed just outside the threshold. His lips curled at the sight of Par-Salian’s horrified expression. But the spell was almost at its climax, and all the mages in the room - there were three, all white robes, other than Par-Salian - were frozen by indecision.

Caramon Majere was at the center of a circle of white powder illuminated by runes and Crysania’s body was laying limply in his arms. The elf silently cursed them both, but at the same time prepared to sprint.

Par-Salians’s stern voice never faltered while the magic in the air thickened. Two mages ran toward the kender, grabbing him without any kindness and dragging him in a corner of the room. One even gagged Tasslehoff with the sleeve of his robe, almost suffocating him in the process.

Then it was time. The chant finished. Dalamar ran. Only Par-Salian – pale and suddenly older in appearance - noticed the dark elf beneath the illusion spell; he opened his mouth to cast something. But the Dalamar was well prepared and threw a knife - not his old one, of course; _that_ one was intended for Someone Else. The weapon hit Par-Salian in the belly and the old man went down with a scream; but Dalamar was already headed into the circle, scorching his robes as he leaped over the burning lines of power that were tearing into the fabric of existence. Near him, Caramon had his eyes closed shut against the light and apparently had not seen what was happening. In a few moments, they would be far, far away from Wayreth.

Then, with a wild scream, the kender jumped inside the ritual and everything went white.

_Greenedera_

_____________________

Next chapter: Awakening

[Picture: "Dalamar - Branded" from my deviantart page](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Dalamar-Branded-848069331)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry.  
> Any help in smoothing any weird sentence is welcome, as any comment or review.  
> Many thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta reading!
> 
> NOTE ABOUT "THE MUSICAL" - while writing this fic I was listening like crazy "The Last Trial", and some lines of the English adaptation worked their way in the text. Quotes and credits are annotated in a separate Work on my profile.
> 
> 31/10/2020 edited and reuploaded!


	2. Awakening

***

Raistlin’s consciousness flared up in excitement. From the pit of his mental prison, he felt the moment when the Lich inhabiting his body used all his power and his might to defeat the other Fistandantilus, the one living in the past. Raistlin had been a prisoner of that formless and timeless limbo for so long; for so very long. He had been planning his revenge carefully and finally, finally the time came.

As the two Fistandantules fought, the young mage struck: he grabbed the Lich’s consciousness and trapped it, switching their place. In a moment that seemed to drag for weeks, the two battled until the cage holding the Lich collapsed on itself, imploding and ending the century-long existence of the creature, splintering his soul and scattering his thoughts and memories into Raistlin’s brain. 

With blinding pain, Raistlin regained possession of his body, finding himself in front of the other Fistadandantilus: the old man was weak, barely alive after the magic battle. Without mercy, without thinking, Raistlin finished the creature and stood there, gasping and heaving, trembling.

Raistlin blinked and swayed before regaining his balance. He suddenly knew he was in the underground den of Fistandantilus, in the past, in the city of Istar. An incredible place to finally recover his body after the horrendous imprisonment by the old undead wizard. He was in some sort of stone windowless hall with an arched ceiling, the damp walls blotted with dark stains and the air smelling of mold. The corpse of the old man lay in a rotting pool of dark blood and the stench was nauseating, illuminated by a few oil lanterns hanging from rusted chains.

The young mage closed his eyes, fighting the dizziness. Fistandantilus had invaded his mind during the Test of High-Sorcery and had remained silent and almost forgotten for five years; then, while Raistlin was sailing across the Sea of Blood of Istar the specter had completely taken control of his body. Raistlin had lost the most important of all battles: the powerful old archmage had relegated Raistlin’s consciousness to a mental prison and acted and spoken on his behalf. He had thus activated the Dragon Orb and abandoned his dark elf lover, his twin brother and his other companions to die into the maelstrom.

What had happened next had almost driven Raistlin to madness: he had been locked away, helpless, in a corner of his mind, barely aware of the actions of the Lich. Sometimes the young wizard had managed to glimpse the outside world through his eyes, sometimes not. He knew that _he_ had betrayed the queen of darkness, he knew that _he_ had taken possession of the Tower of the High-Sorcery of Palanthas, he knew that _he_ had traveled to the past with a mad plan to become a god. 

And for this reason, just a few minutes ago, Raistlin had used all his cunning and his power to hit Fistandantilus in his moment of greatest vulnerability: immediately after he had killed his past self. 

The Fistandantilus “of the Present”, the one that had imprisoned him, had been completely vaporized by Raistlin's spell. Strange but true, in front of him there was also the corpse of the Fistandantilus "of the Past", charred and already rotting. Now, finally, Raistlin could find out what had happened as long as he was unconscious. _How long had it been? A month? A year?_

He found out suddenly that two years had passed. 

_Dalamar?_

Raistlin froze. Sudden memory of his lover invaded his mind: he saw with his mind’s eye _Dalamar, sneaking in the shadows, his eyes full of hatred. “Shalafi,” the elf whispered, bowing._

 _What does this mean?_ Raistlin was very still. His eyes wide open, he stared at nothing. His dear, dear love. Frantically, squeezing shut his eyes, ignoring everything else, Raistlin quickly rummaged in the sea of memories of the blasted lich Fistandantilus, looking, fearing... _Dalamar was pale and composed, his hands in the sleeves of his black velvet robes. Then suddenly he threw his dagger and jumped at Raistlin, his hands reaching for his neck. He squeezed hard. The dark elf’s face was a mask of hate, contorted, pained._

 _What had happened while I was imprisoned?_ Raistlin could remember the fear and the hatred of the Lich himself, he remembered when the Monster had pressed his bony hand on the elf's chest during their scuffle, and when the underlying skin had burned under his fingers. Dalamar’s gray eyes, tight with concentration, had opened wide in an expression of horror and pain and then- 

A chanting - the murmur of a spell - brutally interrupted Raistlin’s concentration. The mage realized that whoever he was, he had already tried to get his attention with questions left unanswered. Raistlin’s eyes suddenly focused the underground hall: he spotted a young man, dressed in black robes, just beyond the arched threshold of a corridor. 

_"... jalaran!"_

Danger. Then, Raistlin could have recited the counterspell he had used many times when he was a mercenary... instead his hands moved almost by themselves, remembering a spell more powerful, quick and effective. A gesture - barely a frill of his fingers - and the lightning directed at his heart dissolved into vital energy, which entered directly into his veins. 

Raistlin’s attacker stepped back, turning pale. The young man wore simple black robes, and his short brown hair stood upright from the static electricity in the room. Raistlin was already summoning, in his mind, a spell to kill him. _How dare he to interrupt! In such a critical moment! I have to..._

_No. I’m not the Monster._

“ _Drowshi!”_

The other wizard fell to the ground like a lifeless puppet, but he was still breathing.

Raistlin tightened his jaw and lowered his head. He was breathing heavily, not because the magic had cost him any effort, or because he was aware of the great tiredness settling in his limbs by the recent spells launched by Fistandantilus, but for the strength of the _emotions_ that were roaring in his chest. Feelings that he could finally truly feel, rather than that cold and rational shadows that had reached him behind the wall of his invisible prison. He had been about to murder another person without even thinking about it. Oh, he had killed his share of people during the War, but never, never without true reason. He shivered, trying to shake off the instincts of the Lich from his limbs, and at the same time his mind immediately resumed his research for memories about Dalamar.

Dalamar... by the Abyss, Dalamar had attacked Fistandantilus while he had been wearing Raistlin's body, and the accursed Lich had… _oh, dear Lunitari, tell me that Dalamar is still alive._

But the memory was elusive. Frantically, clenching his teeth, closing his eyes, Raistlin tried again to focus again on that memory; it was essential to find out how that fight had ended. But as the bile was biting at the back of his throat, he found other memories. 

“Shalafi,” _Dalamar spat._ That elven word meant “Master.” _What? Why Dalamar is saying it? And why Dalamar’s eyes bear such hatred when looking at me?_

Raistlin’s heart was breaking apart, for the love he felt - again - for the elf, and for the hatred he saw in his eyes. Yes, the dark elf was living his life thinking that Raistlin had left him, becoming such a monster. Raistlin’s soul shriveled at the thought that those eyes had looked at him that way, with such odium. What did Dalamar think of him? How much had he suffered because of him? 

But above all, had he survived? 

Laboriously, steeling himself, Raistlin collected some glimpses of memories. Suddenly he remembered cold, slender, and strong hands around his own throat. Dalamar had attacked Fistandantilus, almost succeeding in killing him, and in response the old monster had inflicted a terrible curse on the dark elf: a wound on the chest, a curse that tied the life force of the Silvanesti to Fistandantilus, forever. But Soon after, the archmage had left!

Raistlin licked his lips. He had not realized that he had knelt on the floor, in the blood and the ashes around the body of the dead old wizard. 

Dalamar was alive! Yes, Fistandantilus had already planned his departure; he had to travel in the past to the magnificent Istar to kill his old self and take his place, change the past, and use the priestess Crysania to challenge Takhisis, so he hadn't _bothered_ to kill the dark elf.

So. Dalamar was alive. Wounded, half cursed, and heartbroken, but alive. Would Fistandantilus‘s curse be active even if the old Lich had died? The blood in Raistlin’s veins ran faster, and he felt an unusual tingle in it. 

Lifeforce. 

Dalamar's? 

No, it was not possible. Through a Timespin spell? Fistandantilus’ knowledge told him it was unlikely. Then Raistlin realized he could feel a magical connection to someone near him... 

The mage looked up, sitting on his heels. In a familiar yet foreign gesture, he retrieved the Staff of Magius - it had fallen to the ground during the previous battle - and used it to help himself stand up. His lips brushed the warm and aromatic wood. He turned to the young wizard - Fistandantilus’ apprentice, likely - on the ground and reached him in slow steps. In his twenties, the human was pale, barely breathing. 

Raistlin could almost see, with a new magical sight that had nothing to do with his old curse, a dark stain - like black cancer - devouring the neck of the young apprentice. With the tip of the staff, he pulled back the collar of the black robes, revealing the grotesque fingerprints that a grisly old hand had left on the boy's neck as if he had clawed and almost strangled him. The skin was blackened, marked by a bloody bruise, but Raistlin could see beyond it a mark of necromancy, sucking life and transmitting it to someone else. _Why is the spell still active? Isn’t Fistandantilus dead?_

Raistlin’s brain whispered an unpleasant answer. _You,_ you are _Fistandantilus now. Time flows, Master of the Past and Present. Fistandantilus's plan worked, by killing his past ego, he himself became the wizard of the past. Yourself. His memories lie in you._

The implications of that thought were disturbing, but the ancient knowledge of Fistandantilus told him the same. Raistlin's mind, the memories of Fistandantilus. Raistlin's body, but at the same time, it was also that of the old Black Robe. Time travel was a tear to the fabric of Time itself... even more so when a great wizard kills himself in the past! 

_What..._ who _will see Dalamar when we met again?_

_No, not now. Not now. I cannot think of this now._

First of all, Raistlin was currently supposed to be able to return to his time. Then he could deal with Dalamar. Somehow. He looked around, catching a glimpse of rows and rows of books waiting in the shadows of that underground dungeon. He suddenly remembered that this was Fistandantilus’ den, and that it held countless spellbooks and artifacts, rare components and priceless teleportation circles. He decided that, before returning home, he would take possession of all those books, the artifacts that lay around there... and regain his strength. Get clean, sleep, even eat something... especially understand his powers, and his memories. 

Yes, he was free, and the Timespin Spell would bring him home on golden wings, where he could meet Dalamar again and... explain to him. He would finally tell him everything, he would ask for forgiveness for everything that had happened, he would offer all his knowledge... and then he would hope that the elf would understand... but at least, in any case, regardless of anything he would choose to do to him later at least the elf would _know_ the truth. And, of course, Raistlin would have to find a way to free the elf from that necromantic curse. And perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, Dalamar could forgive him. 

Exhaustion swept in a sudden wave over the young mage's body. He had to rest and take care of things. 

Raistlin lowered his head and contemplated the human lying unconscious on the ground at his feet. Whispering an arcane word, he freed the apprentice from his spell. The young man groaned, bringing a hand to his head where it had hit the floor, and opened his eyes, widening them when he saw the other wizard towering over him with the Staff of Magius pointed at his throat. 

"Get up, apprentice." Raistlin said, listening in awe at the sound of his own voice. It was stronger than he remembered, deeper. He finally noted that the hand helding the Staff was not gold, but pale. _What had happened to my body?_

The other one crawled on his hands, backing away and gasping. "What happened? Master… is that you?” 

"And who else?" Raistlin muttered bitterly. _Good question indeed._

The apprentice paled, then blushed while relief blossomed on his face. "I ... I did not understand! I beg your pardon, Master, I thought another wizard had attacked you and that he had won..." His gaze quickly settled on the burned remains of his former old master, wandered for the room and finally met Raistlin’s gaze. 

_He’s lying._ Raistlin easily understood it. The boy had, yes, taken for granted that the newly entered wizard was an intruder, but he thought _his_ Fistandantilus had won the fight, taking possession of the younger body of the intruder. Therefore, the apprentice had chosen to betray his mentor and launch his attack, hoping to kill the monster in a moment of alleged weakness. And now he hoped to get by with the lie. 

_I could kill him now and let him learn the lesson._

Raistlin froze because that thought was not his own. Or rather, it was - there was no one in his mind now, right? Yet, it was as if his brain had become accustomed to thinking certain cruel thoughts, taking the habit of treating everyone just like things. Or like stairs, to be shamelessly climbed. 

"How lucky I am to have a caring young man like you by my side," Raistlin said instead. "Now clean up this mess. But first, bring me some..." No, the thought of food was revolting. "In fact, just clean this up, then go to the library and wait for new orders." 

With two slow and thoughtful steps, Raistlin reached the old wizard's corpse and, winning against the repulsion in his heart , reached out to take the mighty bloodstone from the burnt remains of the ribcage - it would be useful for experimenting with the lifelink spell, maybe to free Dalamar. He knew this stone was significant to Fistandantilus; he remembered that the old lich had craved to regain possession of that particular artifact. 

Still, the cursed pendant was not where he remembered seeing it. Instead, Raistlin saw, bent as he was, that same pendant and its metallic chain dangling in front of his own face, hanging from his neck. As if it had always been there. Raistlin closed his hand in a fist, straightening up. He gave the young man an intimidating glance and then walked quickly into the corridor where - as if he did not know - there were his rooms. 

Raistlin closed the door behind him and collapsed on the chair near a wooden desk. He clenched his head in his hands, resting his elbows on the table. 

_All right. Now let's start again, in order. Dalamar. I know you are alive. But why in the name of the Abyss did you attack me? Where? When?_

Memories of the dark elf swirled disorderly around his mind until Raistlin finally managed to put them in line. The Conclave of Mages had insisted on sending _him_ an apprentice. Fistandantilus had accepted it, even knowing he was going to be a spy. When that apprentice had revealed to be Dalamar himself, the Lich had been amazed and delighted at the prospect of tormenting him and, one day, of using the elf as his new body. 

“No!” Raistlin screamed uselessly. The events he was remembering were unbelievable. The Conclave had sent an apprentice to his captor, this Raistlin had understood time ago, yes, but… that apprentice was... Dalamar? How could the Conclave have made such a monstrously cruel choice! And how could Dalamar have accepted such a thing? 

Raistlin knew very well that Fistandantilus, despite despising his apprentice, had temporarily resigned himself to keep him alive: he did not want to draw the ire of the Heads of the Conclave for killing their pupil. Also, he preferred to keep a warm and young meal to devour when he would completely consume Raistlin's body. But that attack... 

There had been several attacks, in fact, the wizard read in the memories: clashes, quarrels, and pure mistreatment. As if flipping through a book at high speed, Raistlin looked for their encounters - careful not to break the pages or mess up the vast amount of information he had. He remembered the Lich’s wicked joy in exaggerating the loving attentions to the Revered Daughter, knowing it would cause Dalamar disgust. The young mage already knew much of Fistandantilus’ plan to become a god and the priestess’ role in it, as he knew that Lord Soth and Kitiara had tried to kill the woman, uselessly. Raistlin discovered that the attack, and the "death" of the Revered Daughter, had been Dalamar's doing, in league with Kitiara. Had the dark elf fallen so low that he had to ally with his sister? 

There it was the memory he was looking for! In his study. 

_Dalamar was pale and composed, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his velvet robe; his expression was an iron mask. Fistandantilus smiled to himself, hoping that, behind that mask, there would be pain._ Raistlin's eyes, unlike those of the Lich, now clearly saw that pain, the dreadful terror, the resignation in the face of the looming danger. 

The master and his apprentice argued. Then with a mixture of spells and physical weapons, the elf brutally attacked Fistandantilus. Yes, Raistlin thought, the dark elf would not limit himself at using only magic. He used his old dagger and the street fight he learned in the slums of Tarsis years before. A part of Raistlin rejoiced to see that Dalamar had succeeded in launching an attack that had objectively endangered the Lich. In contrast, another part of him was horrified at the idea that Dalamar's feelings towards Raistlin could have changed in such a way as to push him to attack Raistlin with so much violence and dedication. But after all, wasn’t he right? From his point of view, Raistlin's betrayal had been the worst. 

The only faint hope that was lingering in the human's heart was that Dalamar maybe knew, thanks to the few clues Raistlin had been able to give him during their last honest conversations, that the one before him was not Raistlin, but that unnamed Something Else that had afflicted the human since his Test, and had had fully possessed him for the first time during the Silvanesti Nightmare... 

The feeling – the memory - of Dalamar's flesh sizzling under his fingertips hit Raistlin again, and he quickly grabbed a bowl and retched. His stomach was empty, and he coughed uselessly, spitting out bile and gasping for breath. But his grip on this particular memory was the hold of a man who feels like dying, and he mercilessly ignored his body and remained focused on the images ravaging his mind. 

_His chest burning, Dalamar fell backward, breathing heavily, while Fistandantilus did the same. The old man spat, through Raistlin choked voice, words of hatred, then called a teleport spell, fleeing in his room._

Gritting his teeth, Raistlin followed the actions of the Lich: his retreat, the frightening instants in which he had played with the idea of sucking off all of Dalamar's vital energy from the wound on his chest, and the decision to keep him alive, but tormenting, for some time again. Fistandantilus knew that his current body was weak, very weak compared to that of the elf. He would preserve the elf alive in the possibility that he might need a change of body in the future. And in the meantime, how much he would make his apprentice suffer... 

Then the old bastard's attention had resumed on his mad plan, and his memories had become less interesting. However, Raistlin flipped through them equally, both to be sure that Dalamar would not appear again, either to understand his contingent situation. Nothing new: time travel, the awareness that Crysania and plausibly his brother, sometime in the future, would be sent to Istar by the Conclave. Fistandantilus has already read the timeline and discovered when they would appear: three months in the future of this current day. 

_Well. What a mess._

Then exhaustion swept him hard, and the wizard collapsed on the desk.

_Greenedera_

______________________

Next Chapter: The paradox

[Pic: "Raistlin and the Bloodstone" from my Deviantart page](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Raistlin-and-the-Bloodstone-846766904)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta reading and helping me smooth the translation!  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry.  
> Any help in smoothing any weird sentence is welcome, as any comment or review.  
> \---  
> NOTE ABOUT "THE MUSICAL" - while writing this fic I was listening like crazy "The Last Trial", and some lines of the English adaptation worked their way in the text. Quotes and credits are annotated in a separate Work on my profile.  
> \---  
> This fanfic is an AU inspired by Skull_Bearer's AU "Temporal"  
> \----  
> 31/10/2020 edited and reuploaded!


	3. The paradox

***

Raistlin spent his first two days in Istar with the arduous task of rearranging his thoughts with positive and negative results.

The good news: his body was still alive. After spending the first day in Istar without feeling the urge to eat or drink, Raistlin had feared that the Lich had inhabited his dead body. The realization he was not a corpse animated by some nefarious spell was a source of great relief. Then he had discovered that nourishment was still necessary, only that it did not come from where he had expected: the ancient archmage Fistandantilus had brought the art of necromancy to new heights and kept a small pack of deformed creatures - created by corrupting and mixing different living races - in a secret chamber in his den, to feed his body. These "living ones" were eating scraps, corpses, and other trash, sending their nourishment as magical vital energy directly to their master's body.

With disgust, Raistlin realized that this was how his body had survived since his arrival at the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas: beneath the Tower itself, there were dungeons inhabited by these monsters... and here in Istar, there were others. It felt wrong that his body was already connected to these monsters… as if it had always been this way.

 _Of course,_ he thought bitterly; I _always thought that sleep, food, and bodily needs were a distraction from the study of magic. And yet... how ironic, now that I have found the solution, I'm refusing it._

But no, Raistlin was not willing to sacrifice so much of his humanity. So, with great difficulty, he had managed to move from being a disgusting parasite to being completely human again.

Yet, the wizard just wanted to get back to his time and find Dalamar. To return to his lover, to receive forgiveness. He imagined the conversation he would have with Dalamar so many times… Raistlin was tormented by his memories: many of his finest recollections of the time spent with his lover had been twisted and corrupted and were by now barely recognizable, intentionally ruined by that thrice-cursed Fistandantilus. In the most rational part of his mind, Raistlin knew what had truly happened that day on the road between Qualinesti and Solace when he had met the dark elf for the first time. But if he went through the memory with his mind's eye, he saw just two young fools, driven by their adolescent lust, panting like animals, twisted in obscene acts.

This was a horrible low blow, in addition to a long series of low blows Fistandantilus had already inflicted Raistlin, and not even the knowledge that the Lich was gone could relieve him. In fact, there was still something deeply wrong with his head, which filled him with dread.

The mage's memories of Dalamar were already painful enough, even without distortion: in the weeks after he had come into possession of the Dragon Orb in Silvanesti, things had gone very, very wrong. Over a few weeks, Fistandantilus had become a tangible presence in Raistlin's mind, constantly tormenting him and preventing him from revealing the truth to the dark elf. In fact, whenever Raistlin had tried to talk about the Lich haunting his mind, he had been hit by terrible coughing fits, his throat closing, preventing him from breathing. The choice had been clear: to continue living by keeping his secret or suffocate trying to speak. Although he had once almost died in an attempt to reveal vital clues to Dalamar, he had never truly made him understand what kind of hell he was living.

And so, as they traveled to Flotsam performing with their fake company as street artists, many misunderstandings had accumulated.

Finally, the worst had happened: Raistlin remembered that moment during their journey by ship across the Blood Sea of Istar with horror. How was it possible that things had gone so wrong? A flock of blue dragons had chased the ship Perechon - thanks to the idiocy of Tanis Half-Elven, who had led Kitiara and her minions straight to them so they ended up on the brink of the giant Maelstrom; exactly what they had to avoid while crossing the Blood Sea. When Raistlin had last seen the ship, it had been about to sink into the depths.

Raistlin still called himself a fool for his clumsy rescue attempt. He should have accepted his fate, plunging into the sea with his beloved... of course, at the time he could not have known that the passengers of the ship would be somehow saved. Months after the shipwreck he had met not only Dalamar but also Caramon and the other Companions, a sign that the fall had not proven fatal. But who could have known? Raistlin had believed he had the ability to take control of the situation, exploit his growing power, and save himself and his lover thanks to the mighty artifact in their possession, the Dragon Orb.

Instead, the mighty Lich had used the enchanted globe to strike Raistlin's mind and enslave him completely. The young mage had utterly lost awareness of his body and had found himself in an atemporal place without form, without sight, without hearing. Like a fish in a bowl, Raistlin had tried and tried to get out of it, without success - without being able to say goodbye to Dalamar.

Fleeting images of what happened in the outside world had reached him in that unreal dimension typical of dreams. Raistlin had seen himself abandoning his elven lover on that ship and had contemplated his betrayed and wounded expression. Fistandantilus had left the companions to teleport to Palanthas, to Neraka, to other places less known to the silent and sporadic spectator he carried into his head. Raistlin had realized he was part of the Dark Queen's army, and, later, he had watched with amazement and terror the joy of the dark Lich when he had betrayed Takhisis in Neraka: at the time, he had already been planning his journey towards godhood.

Raistlin had truly seen Dalamar one last time through the eyes of his puppeteer. In the caves below Neraka, the dark elf had crossed paths with the Lich while trying to understand the truth behind the incomprehensible behavior of his former lover. Next to him were Caramon, Tanis Half-Elven, little Tasslehoff... but Raistlin could only look at Dalamar's pained grey eyes.

Raistlin knew that Fistandantilus had tried to kill the dark elf and that he had failed. Then... Nothing. The ancient sorcerer had sealed Raistlin's prison, completely depriving him of the privileged access to the events surrounding him.

That dark pool, filled only with Raistlin's thoughts, had been all he had known for what had felt like centuries, or millennia.

There is no sense of time in dreams. It had cost Raistlin a superhuman effort to weaken that prison gradually. Every little thought of Fistandantilus that the young man had managed to extract from the black wall in his mind had been precious and pivotal for gathering the strength and determination to develop his escape plan.

The plan had worked; Raistlin had won. He was out of prison. What could his problems be now, compared to what he had faced?

The raw power in Raistlin's hands was enormous. The knowledge that Fistandantilus had accumulated over the centuries was inside him, along with all the memories of the necromancer's boundless ambition. It was easy for Raistlin to understand his attitude... and not just because he had lived in close contact with him for two years. Why bother to kindle a fire with wood, when you can summon fire at a glance? Why endure the stupidity of conversation with someone when you can just read his mind? Why respect a rule, when you have the power to break it - but especially to ignore the consequences of the act?

In the hours when Raistlin laid in bed - trying to relax enough to achieve an elusive sleep that his body no longer remembered needing - it was difficult to stop the steady pace of his thoughts. He had lived as a being of pure thought for a long time. But he needed to rest; otherwise, he would not recover his strength enough to cast the powerful Timespin spell.

If Raistlin were Fistandantilus, he would simply suck dry the life force of Markhus, the apprentice. But the mage didn't want to do that. Of course, if it was the only chance to recover… Fortunately, it wasn't.

 _Just a goal: go back home._ Like a spell, Raistlin repeated those words in his mind every hour. 

The first night he was able to fall asleep, he dreamed Dalamar.

***

Raistlin committed the first two weeks in Istar by successfully recovering his strength, rearranging his memories, and reviewing the books contained in the rooms of Fistandantilus. He separated them according to topics and then threw himself headfirst into the study of those that he needed to know by heart: time travel, of course, but also the study of the necromancy spells related to the bloodstone.

During the nights, he forced himself to sleep to reconnect to a body that had partly forgotten its physical needs and rest a mind that had not really slept for years in a row. It was not just this, of course... an important reason that motivated him every evening to lie down in bed and forget his conscience was precious and sweet: Dalamar.

The most beautiful memories concerning the dark elf had been severely affected by the corruption the old Lich had deliberately crafted into the young wizard's memory with intentional cruelty. When he was awake, Raistlin was forced to remember his lover as if he saw him through a dirty window distorting the view... but not when he was asleep.

Here the most profound and unconscious part of his mind could run free, remembering secret smiles, nights of passion, accomplice glances. This way, he was able to evoke an old memory and modify it, softening even those episodes, especially those precious last episodes, in which things in real life had begun to go wrong. Straighten out the choices, create a better world, one surpassing the old.

Firmly focused on his objectives - returning from the dark elf as fast as possible and freeing him from the curse of Fistandantilus soon after - Raistlin used every waking hour to study. His "new" apprentice had undoubtedly understood that something had changed because he wandered the dungeon with a restless air about him, but he still promptly executed his master's orders.

Fistandantilus had not left many notes of his most crucial spell, the bloodstone's "lifelink." He had probably felt no need to; there were formulas, notes about rituals, but not any treaty analyzing the nature of the spell that would allow someone to discuss its uses in one way or another. Raistlin found an instruction manual full of horrors, but without any reference to past experiments or the old man's attempts to refine his technique. The old bastard Fistandantilus had apparently never thought of writing the spell necessary to free an apprentice from his curse if that was even possible.

Raistlin had wasted weeks this way before he decided to experiment with something. Of course, he could use all the time he wanted - or rather, he still had months before the Cataclysm fell on Istar. He would avoid the event, merely moving elsewhere to continue his studies. He intended to return to Dalamar the day after he had quarreled with Fistandantilus by calibrating the Timespin Spell accurately... Or he could cast the spell right now and deal later with everything else. Raistlin felt like never before the flow of sand in the hourglass of his life.

Raistlin already knew, and he had always known, of course, that his time with Dalamar would be painfully limited by the tragic shortness of his human life... and that the day would come when the dark elf would have to walk alone in the days of the future. This awareness had always pushed him to live his days with the elf even more fully, to devour every moment together voraciously. Now his folly had cost him not only years of life together, but years of suffering for the being he had dearest in the world. He had to come back. Soon.

The attempt to free his actual apprentice – Markhus was his name - from the curse had failed. Honestly, Raistlin preferred not to think too much about that experiment. 

The premises were not good, and he Raistlin made his best attempt on the boy... with the only result of accelerating the suction of life force. Now Markhus was still alive, but the good news ended here. The young man was gravely ill, and soon he would die from the curse that was slowly devouring his body. He was able to do light activities, such as studying, but little more. Considering that the Cataclysm was approaching quickly, Raistlin had not bothered either to continue the attempts or to end the life of the poor wretch. He was too disgusted from the spell's ugliness, from the thought of all the young apprentices who had fallen prey to that filthy magic, including Raistlin and Dalamar...

 _I am the master of the Past and the Present,_ Raistlin had thought. _I have all the memories of Fistandantilus, even though I have not yet analyzed all of his older knowledge. I can travel in time. Therefore, I can come back to Dalamar, and then travel back to an even more remote past than this current one, and - in addition to studying the experiments of the old Lich - I can also experiment_ _with other apprentices struck by his curse._

Armed with this reasoning, and devoured by longing, Raistlin had prepared the step immediately before the time travel: to secure the books. He had procured several magical bags, whose magic would contain numerous books in a small space and protect them from decay. Then he had traveled through Ansalon on the wings of magic to find a safe hiding place that would still be inviolated three hundred years later. This had taken less time than expected: with the extraordinary magical powers in his possession, creating a hiding place like this was only a matter of technique.

Then he had finally cast the Timespin Spell... and it hadn't worked.

***

The time travel spell wasn't responding. At all. Cold sweat covered Raistlin's skin like an icy blanket, and a wave of nausea went up to his throat.

 _I did something wrong,_ was Raistlin's first reaction. _I must study it better._

But as he went over the spell again, the wizard was sure that it had not been a mistake on his part due to his lack of experience: he had the knowledge, and he had the power. Yet the spell refused to work even though the young man had felt strong magical energies awaken in response to his words in the language of magic.

The ancient knowledge of the streams of time laying in Fistandantilus's memory whispered an explanation, but that was something Raistlin didn't want to listen to.

His mind traveled the umpteenth time all the steps, all the attempts already made, all the experiments that went wrong. Even the unpleasant conclusions he had come to: he could not travel forward in time because he had created a paradox.

That very night, he started to dream of Takhisis laughing at him. 

***

The day after that, Raistlin teleported to Palanthas, where he burst forcefully into the study of Astinus the Librarian himself.

Raistlin had no personal recollections of the man called the Ageless, but Fistandantilus had met him several times, both while wearing Raistlin's body and in his long-gone past life. Raistlin immediately recognized the man, apparently in his fifties, lean and pale with receded grey hair, wearing grey robes and looking at everything with intense eyes.

When Raistlin entered the study of the librarian, he witnessed a disturbing scene because the man - if he could ever be really called a man - looked up at him and snorted.

Raistlin didn't waste time in pleasantries. "Why can I not travel in time to reach my Present? Why am I unable to?"

The librarian's face was impassible and expressionless. "But this _is_ your present, Master Fistandantilus."

Raistlin was so angry he could have thrown to the ground all the books around him. "Fistandantilus is dead! I am Raistlin Majere, and my present time is not this one!" the archmage cried, his voice shrill.

Astinus spoke dryly. "Fistandantilus is alive; otherwise, everything that happened in the future, including your coming here, Raistlin Majere, would not be possible." Somehow, the librarian was losing his usual cold and indifferent attitude. "Killing your past self was an act of madness, and now you shall suffer the consequences. Time is a great tapestry, woven out of thousands of threads, and removing one connected to too many others is not possible. In your eyes, I see the future, as you call it: you will travel in time until 39 after Cataclysm, and you will participate in the War of the Dwarven Gates, conquering the fortress of Zhaman and then destroying it. These events cannot be changed. Otherwise, it would tear away the fabric of time, with terrible consequences. The Chaos could free itself in the world, breaking its millennial prison and devouring all the reality. It only seems right that the Gods of magic are not providing you with the power to unleash that calamity in our world. So, Master Fistandantilus, only your plan to enter the Abyss will lead you forward, willing, or not."

"But I do not want to enter the Abyss!" said Raistlin in a whisper that became louder as he spoke: "I do not mean to follow Fistandantilus's footsteps and attack the Queen of Darkness! I do not give a damn about Zhaman!"

"This is irrelevant. The fabric of time is, instead, relevant," said Astinus in a grave tone.

Raistlin bowed his head, thinking furiously. He knew Astinus the Lorekeeper was careful to avoid disturbing the flow of history by his actions. But he needed to learn more!

"What are the facts that cannot be changed? Just the ones you named?" the sorcerer said grimly.

A long pause. "Yes," the librarian said slowly, his tone mildly curious.

Raistlin swallowed. "So, after blowing up Zhaman and exterminating hundreds of innocent lives, will my time travel spell work?"

Astinus spoke in a level tone. "…I cannot answer that question."

The young wizard stared at the Ageless One with half-lidded eyes. "But if I would do all this, and then I went into the Abyss, I would not indeed need a Timespin spell, would I? Because the Abyss exists in all places and at all times. I could cross it to return to my own time..." he said slowly, thinking rapidly. "That would not risk creating a paradox... just getting myself killed by Takhisis herself".

Astinus ignored him and retrieved his quill. He dipped it in his inkpot and resumed his writing of the Chronicles, his face impassive.

"Or" smiled the mage, "I could throw myself off a cliff and kill this "Fistandantilus" too... wouldn't I free Chaos all the same?" smiled the mage. "After all, I have more chances than you think."

"Nonsense. You would not do it, as you would not get any benefit from that," said Astinius without raising his head.

"I could gain an advantage in not doing it, if I received some information that would convince me to follow the other canonical plan," suggested Raistlin sarcastically, "...from which you would have a greater advantage, not having to recover the pieces of a world destroyed by Chaos."

Silence, then a wistful sigh. Astinus raised his head and leveled his gaze at Raistlin. "I will answer, but not because of this ridiculous threat. You can jump off a cliff if you want, wizard, but I guarantee you that nothing will change in what will happen; it will only make it more complicated and painful for you. As I said, only the fabric of time is relevant, and you are not. But... amuse me. What do you want to know?"

Raistlin tightened his jaw, then straightened his back and spoke: "Will my Timespin Spell work properly to bring lady Crysania and me to the year 39 aC?"

a particular written," replied Astinus dryly.

"If I were to cause the destruction of Zhaman, why would a new Timespin spell from that day not work properly, as you seem to suggest?"

The librarian's face was not wholly impassive, but it was difficult to discern his expression. "This question concerns a very specific timeline that cannot be read from here, but I am sure you can find the answer yourself," he said. 

_Is he smiling? Gods below, is this man smiling?_ Raistlin exhaled. "Is it true that crossing the Abyss will allow me to return to my time?"

Astinus waited some seconds before answering - as if debating if sharing his knowledge or not. "If you survive that feat, you could exit the Abyss at the time set by your entry spell. An exit door can be used in many ways, however."

The mage nodded abruptly.

"Anything else?"

"Of course not."

Raistlin bowed a farewell to the Master Librarian and left.

_It seems that I will have to deal with the Revered Daughter again, after all._

_Greenedera_

____________________________

Next chapter: "[Welcome to Istar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637739/chapters/57810799#workskin)"

["Raistlin - The Invisibility spell" from my deviantart page](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Raistlin-the-invisibility-spell-852202141)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry.  
> Any help in smoothing any weird sentence is welcome, as any comment or review.
> 
> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta of this chapter.  
> \---  
> This fanfic is an AU inspired by Skull_Bearer's AU "Temporal"


	4. Welcome to Istar

Raistlin had not realized he was dozing off at his desk when an insistent knocking woke him. The sound came from the outer door of his underground system of rooms. The white light of the Staff of Magius illuminated the room - the smallest of Fistadandantilus’s laboratories, the one where Raistlin withdrew more willingly to read. The water clock indicated three o'clock in the morning. 

The knocking boomed again in the silence of the night. 

Lowering the hood over his eyes, the wizard rose and climbed the stairway. He reached the entrance hallway and its door. He was intrigued by the presence he could sense on the other side: a human commoner. He opened the door a crack. 

"Who dares to disturb me this night?" Raistlin said, trying to imitate the way of speaking of the old Lich. 

"Lord, ehm ... Master. I'm Kurt. You know, the one from the prisons... We caught another one, sir." 

"Explain better." 

"A Black Robes, Master, a pointy-ears. A would-be murderer, they told me. The guards just caught him." 

_What's the meaning of this?_ "Remind me why I should care. Many other important things require my attention." 

"Ehm… It’s the _deal_ , sir! You wanted the first choice on captured wizards- before they go on trial. You remember our agreement now? Do you want this one or not? He's young, you know." 

_Ah. Of course, Fistandantilus would be hunting for young wizards to drain vital energy from. A corrupt prison guard is an invaluable asset to get the first choice on the freshly captured prisoners._

"No, this time I'm not interested," Raistlin answered. Then, feeling a twinge of guilt, he added, awkwardly: “But release him, this way we won’t waste his life in a stupid execution of the Holy Inquisition.” Trying to control his nervousness, the wizard began to close the door. 

The daring fool swiftly blocked the door with his foot while his badly shaved face blushed. 

"But sir... I can’t do anything like that! Not without your intervention! Moreover, what would I gain? It's not like we can free a black wizard in the middle of Istar; they’d catch him again, wouldn't they? You usually handle the business personally, don't you? We’ll sell him to you as a slave, and then you’ll take him away, as usual..." the mellifluous voice was becoming desperate at the prospect of losing the cash. 

"Keep him in custody on my behalf," said Raistlin, more and more irritated, handing him a heavy gold coin. "I’ll come tomorrow to get him and pay the rest. Enough for now." 

"If you want him whole and sound, it would be best to come right now," Kurt said firmly: apparently, closing swiftly the deal was better than putting it off until the morning. "Young black robes with a pretty face do not last long in Istar's prisons without receiving special attention. Also, they accused this one of aggression against a Revered Daughter of Paladine. You can’t be sure that he will still be there tomorrow morning. If the Holy Guards of the Temple take him, we will both remain empty-handed..." 

_Is this predicament worth my time?_

Then, in a heartbeat, Raistlin thought of all the young wizards Fistandantilus had captured and tortured: Markhus, Dalamar, himself, and many other nameless apprentices. He thought of all the black, red, and white robes burned by the Church during the Lost Wars. Yes, he could do it. He could save just one. 

"Very well. Lead the way." 

*** 

This area of the prisons was a transitory sorting zone. Despite the late hour, there was a sort of buzz. The guards locked small groups of people in iron cages - some people looked like citizens who just got drunk or had committed minor infractions - while they handcuffed the most dangerous ones to hooks hanging from the white marble walls. There were several guards, some of the parade kind dressed in white uniforms and shining metal, and then the crudest ones who did the dirty work and were keeping the prisoners in line.

Kurt was obviously well known here - and Fistandantilus was too. Everyone looked away, pretending not to see the Black Robe, and then stared and whispered behind his back. As Raistlin and Kurt walked, they were surrounded by an aura of silence, which even the prisoners imitated unconsciously. 

They arrived at a series of small, closed doors. There were two large men in scorched clothing at the last cell. One of them was wrapping a burn on his arm.

Kurt glanced at the black-robed figure beside him. "As you can see, we risk our lives to meet your requests, Master. I hope you realize the great effort on our part..." 

"I get it. Hurry up." 

"A great son of a bitch, this one!" the wounded - and dumbest - guard intervened, attracting the dismayed gaze of his colleagues. "Insidious as a shitty rat and as fast as a fucking snake. I hope you give him a damn nice lesson, down there in your evil secret lair. Sir." 

Raistlin remained silent. Kurt, undoubtedly imagining his money evaporate, quickly pulled the bar back and opened the door to reveal a dark, smelly cell. He grabbed a lantern and entered, cursing and spitting an insult to the prisoner. 

"We tried to explain to the boy that you would come to get him," the other guard remarked offhandedly. "But this one does not understand a shit. My father always told me that the elves are just scumbags. He tried to escape! He's a bit banged-up now, sorry.”

The light illuminated the figure huddled on the ground. 

Raistlin's thoughts shattered. 

_No... no!_

“We had to fucking stop him,” said the guardsman, peering inside after the wizard entered, “No need to worry, though. He’s alive. Master." 

_I should hope so; otherwise I will set FIRE to these prisons and all of Istar - and it will be told in the future that the mountain of fire erupted beneath the city, rather than falling from above!_ Knees wobbly, he clung to the Staff of Magius, considering the hypothesis of killing all those present just to have a moment alone with the prisoner.

He would recognize Dalamar anywhere, in any position, and any state. _Goddamnit, what is_ Dalamar _doing here!_

He suddenly felt cold. _Take him out of there!_ His thoughts had become strangers, and they were screaming, whispering, buzzing, and babbling, competing to attract his attention. _Clean him, cure him. Gods below! Bring him away..._

With an effort, Raistlin straightened, fumbling with the strings of the coin bag at his belt and turning towards Kurt. 

"This prisoner belongs to me. Get rid of any evidence that he was here, and of what became of him,” he said hoarsely and threw the whole bag and earning himself a genuinely surprised look from all three men. 

With four steps, he was by Dalamar’s side, his heart throbbing wildly. The black hair of his love was clogged with blood, his clothes torn. The cheeks were swollen, the eyes puffy and red. His face laid on the stinking floor of the cell. 

_First thing, I'll take you away and take care of you. Then... I will come back and KILL them all!_

This time the cruel thought did not seem too evil or foreign. It was definitely his own. He knelt on the ground and took the limp body in his arms to create a physical contact for the teleport spell. Dalamar was much lighter than he had expected, skinny as a little bird under the voluminous clothes. Fighting tears, Raistlin uttered the arcane words and closed his eyes as the spell enveloped them. 

*** 

Markhus had finally gone to sleep. One hour ago, Raistlin had awakened his apprentice and ordered him to assist his master. The expression on the young man's face had been bitter and accusatory: probably, Fistandantilus had ”rescued" other wizards from the prison before, and Markhus already anticipated the gruesome duty of disposing of a dried-up shell. Well. What he believed had no importance for Raistlin.

They had carried the elf into an empty bedroom among the many in Fistandantilus’s dungeons and deposited him on a crude bed. Despite his new body, Raistlin was not strong, and Markhus became sicker every day, so it was essential to work together. Raistlin ordered the young man to bring all the things he needed to care for Dalamar. As soon as possible, the teacher dismissed the apprentice to be alone with his lover.

Lover? That would be an overstatement if there ever had been one. Raistlin couldn’t have come up with a definition of what they were even if he had earnestly tried. Dalamar was the most important person in his life. His lover, his companion, his best friend. And yet... these definitions could only belong to the past. How could they ever reconcile, after the last two years? Just thinking about it made Raistlin's throat feel tight. 

The room contained just a bed, a bedside table, a chair, and a small neglected fireplace. Outside, the cicadas were singing in the torrid night of Istar, but in that bleak dungeon, only dead silence and chill dampness permeated the place.

The wizards had brought warm water, simple food, bandages, and ointments, and they had lit a fire in the fireplace to make the room livable, even if still not comfortable. Raistlin expected Dalamar to wake up at any moment; then, he would check his wounds in more detail and move him elsewhere, but he did not want to scare him right now. If Dalamar woke up and found Raistlin there, working on his body, he’d think he was in danger - considering what happened during the last meeting between teacher and apprentice in Palanthas. For the same reason, Raistlin had not carried the elf to his bedroom. 

So, Raistlin sat down on the chair and waited. 

Before Kurt called, Raistlin had been up most of the night, so, by now, it was probably almost dawn. After the shock of finding Dalamar and the intoxicating effect of adrenaline, Raistlin felt drained and exhausted. Without intending to, he fell asleep. 

*** 

_"You! What the hell are_ you _doing here?" Caramon's angry voice was a heavy rumble. The big man still clutched Crysania's body, looking around with wide eyes but not losing sight of Dalamar, who was untangling himself from the kender. Around them, the vast white buildings of Istar stood out in the warm night, faintly illuminated by the light of the moons and by several elaborate lampposts. Par-Salian's Timespin Spell had just dropped them in the marble plaza of the capital, where they had fallen to the ground._

_"What? We agreed to travel together!" Tasslehoff answered petulantly. Settling his pouches, he got up and stepped over Dalamar so he could get out of the way and give the elf enough space to sit up._

_"Not you! Dalamar!" Caramon growled, looking for the elf's face in the dim light. "You're still alive, eh, wimp?"_

_"Halt!" shouted a commanding voice suddenly - definitely too close. Dalamar glanced around and realized that the situation was quite alarming: several guards were approaching at a run from three different directions. He got up frantically, summoning a spell but at the same time looking for the best escape route: he, unlike the guards, saw rather well in the darkness._

_Dalamar started to run, trying to get away. But Caramon, with unexpected nimbleness for someone so big and usually slow, pulled the wizard by the robes and tripped him. Dalamar slammed onto the pavement, and while he was trying to catch his breath, he recalled all the times in the past when he would have been able to kill that man._ Why, why didn’t I do it?

 _Suddenly two swords reflected the light from the streetlamps, and the elf felt too many weapons resting on his neck._ Not even one of his spells could get him out of this mess - at least, not with him still alive afterward.

 _"You are surrounded!”_

_“What's your business there?”_

_“Surrender immediately!"_

_"What! That's a Revered Daughter of the Temple!"_

_“Is she…”_

_"You're under arrest!"_

_"There is a mistake," Dalamar tried to say, cursing himself for not having prepared better for this journey. Had he really left for Istar dressed in a back wizard’s robe? Without a disguise? Damn._

_"Sir, as you can see, this drunkard attacked me; he’s out of control..." the elf explained in his best convincing tone._

_The pain was blinding when the truncheon struck him on the cheekbone. "Silence, elven scum!"_

_Rough hands grabbed him from several directions. A man took possession of his dagger. Another rudely tied his arms behind his back. Confused, Dalamar realized that a scuffle had risen around Caramon, with at least six guards were fighting to keep him still and tie him up. One had taken Crysania into his arms and was laying her on a nearby bench, while another guard was calling reinforcements, a carriage, and Paladine himself for what Dalamar could care at that moment. Tasslehoff, of course, had disappeared into thin air._

_***_

_"It's your fault that the guards now think I attacked Crysania! Asshole!" Caramon whispered after some minutes, so loudly that he had probably woken up the neighborhood. The guards, however, were agitated and excited about managing the body of Revered Daughter, and no one was intent on paying attention to their words. The two prisoners were tied up to a lamppost and surrounded by sentinels._

_"If you and Par-Salian had just a bit of brain,” retorted Dalamar in a low whisper, “you would have realized that entering a foreign city carrying the corpse of a cleric noblewoman was certainly not a good way to introduce yourself nicely! The spell could have taken us out of town so that we could get closer safely!"_

_Dalamar was about to use one of the attack spells - one that did not include a material component or hand gestures - to free himself, but Caramon caught him by surprise. "You, evil bastard…!" he said and emphasized the insult hitting him on the temple with his forehead._

_The words of the spell dissolved like fog: the impact had been violent, and Dalamar staggered backward, only to be pushed back by the nearby guard. Two soldiers beat Caramon with their truncheons, ordering them to be quiet and starting to drag them away._

_"Are you all idiots? This one is a wizard! Gag him!" Shouted a newly arrived officer._

_Amid imprecations and subdued prayers of ward against evil, a guard stuffed a handkerchief into Dalamar's mouth, another bound him even more tightly, and a third made him walk in the desired direction, prodding him with a short sword. The situation was so bad that Dalamar began to doubt he could get out alive... after all he had been through…_

_The guards led them to a sort of prison, surprisingly large and well organized. White marble decorated the hall, with bright metal plates with quotes about Paladine’s church here and there. Evidently, it was expected that there were so many people under arrest for one reason or another. Dalamar and Caramon were immediately divided, each led to a different location - not that the elf was particularly sorry: the only drawback was that obviously his own position at that moment was worse than that of the human. His mind worked feverishly to set up the explanation he would provide to the guards when he would be interrogated... then he discovered he was a fool and that all dark elves, wizards, and black robes didn’t need any questioning in Istar._

_They threw him into a stone room where two men beat him in turn. After that, they dragged him out, barely able to walk, and hung his handcuffs on a ring planted in the wall, like he was an animal. They gave him no explanation. Dalamar leaned against the wall, exhausted and in pain. Hiding behind his hair, throwing sidelong glances at the surroundings, he began to bite and loosen the gag. His two tormentors stood in silence, motionless beside him. After some minutes, the gag was lax enough: at any moment, he would be able to spit it and summon a spell: his deft fingers had previously snatched some components from the secret emergency pockets in the sleeves of his robe._

*** 

_One hour later, a strange man attracted his attention: a human, with shabby clothes but with a bearing as he was the owner of the place. Followed by two equally rude and crude comrades, he approached the elf and began to talk - with a shady doing - with the soldiers guarding Dalamar. A jingle of coins, and then suddenly the elf had passed into his custody: the two previous guards walked away with a relaxed air, pocketing the money. The two ragged thugs began to untie Dalamar from the metal ring, and the leader approached the elf with a black-toothed smile._

_"You're lucky," he told him, "and I'm lucky too. I bet I'll be able to sell you to old Fistandantilus, and I'll make nice money. Just see not to ruin everything. The old man never lets out a nice young boy.”_

_Dalamar gritted his teeth. He absolutely needed to_ run _away._

_They dragged him away, but without hurting him. The leader of the group, obviously happy for his lucky find, was smiling._

_“You know, down here we make a lot of bets on what_ He _does when he takes y'all away... but I’m sure you will be happy with him..."_

_Dalamar saw an escape route as the guard fumbled with the keys of the little cell where they were going to throw him in. With his hands tied, the number of spells he could cast was reduced, but not quite. He spat his gag and spoke._

_"_ Kalith karan, tobanis-kar! _"_

_Hearing the murmur, the guard had flung himself aside. Someone hit Dalamar from behind, and his spell hit the wall opposite uselessly. But the elf was ready for another one._

"Dasen filinda!" 

_This time the violent wave struck all the guards around, and for a moment, Dalamar was free. He stood up quickly, already murmuring the next spell, which would have rendered him partially intangible, even if for a short time only. One of the exit doors was open, blocked by a drunk who did not want to be dragged inside._

_After four steps, however, he was hit by a violent blow to the back of his head, which interrupted the concentration required by the enchantment. A man fell on him. The elf killed him on the spot with a quick spell, but as he stood up, two more guards fell on him, sticking a rag in his mouth, kicking and punching until he fainted._

*** 

Dalamar emerged from the darkness in which he had fallen during the beating with a strong sense of disorientation. In his mind, the last memories appeared like a confused dream. A moment ago, he was on a smelly dirt floor... now he opened his eyes in a stone chamber lit by a fireplace. The air smelled of dead things and dust. 

_I'll sell you to old Fistandantilus._

Suddenly Dalamar was awake and alert. The elf moved his eyes, and he noticed the figure dressed in black sitting by the bed. He stared at the Staff of Magius, leaning against the wall. How ironic such a familiar object had become a sign of mortal danger. There was no Raistlin Majere beside him, but another man... who somehow resembled how he had been when younger. Red hair emerged from the black hood. A long face with a strong jaw was almost hidden in the shadows. The human’s eyes were closed. He looked like Raistlin when Dalamar had met him on the road to Solace many years ago, but not quite. The mixture of similarities and differences, combined with the awareness of what _Being_ inhabited that… corpse, was repugnant. The lich had been busy before he arrived: had he sucked in some new apprentice in Istar? Why was Dalamar still alive? 

The guard had told the truth: they had handed him over to Fistandantilus. 

There was no time for speculations. Dalamar’s mind screamed: a _ct immediately!_ For some reason, Fistandantilus sat with his eyes closed, as if he was resting... most probably, he was meditating or preparing something. Perhaps behind those closed eyes, the Lich was summoning the spell to possess Dalamar. Or was it some elaborate trick? Had he time to wonder? No. 

The hatred and the sense of terror filled Dalamar's mouth with a bitter taste and suddenly, all the pains of the recent beating disappeared. His mind cleared: in all the previous confusion, there was one spell he had not yet cast, holding it aside specifically in the remote possibility that something like this happened. He moved his fingers in a precise gesture. 

" _Ast kiranann kair Gadurm Sotharn - Suh kali Jalaran_ " 

_Greenedera_

______________________

[Next Chapter: Clash](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637739/chapters/58153924)

[Pic: "Istar by night", from my deviantart page](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Istar-by-night-Dragonlance-859897467)

[Pic: "Dalamar's injury" from my deviantart page](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Dalamar-s-injury-Raistlin-and-Dalamar-861303735)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 05/05/2020 published!  
> 01/11/2020 edited and pic added!


	5. Clash

Raistlin woke abruptly, struck by a violent pain, only to be slammed against a wall the next moment. The hard impact made a white light dance before his eyes, superimposed on the confused image of crackling lightning bolts all around him. The roar was ear-splitting, and he could smell something burning. 

Blinded, deafened, and dazed, the archmage shielded his eyes with one hand and brought the other one to his chest, where he could feel a burning sting. His fingers found the little incandescent pendant and, between the lights and shadows that obscured his vision, he could distinguish zigzagging lines of lightning bending and being channeled by the bloodstone. What the hell was it? But above all.… who was attacking him...?

 _Raistlin Majere, you're an idiot, and you deserve what's happening to you_ , he told himself bitterly, as the convulsions caused by the electric shock calmed, and he finally began to regain his sight. He was slumped in the corner of that small room, surrounded by the wreckage of the desk, and Dalamar was throwing himself at him, his face contorted with hatred.

The dark elf had quickly picked up a pointed object - a broken table leg - and lowered the improvised weapon with speed and violence. Those eyes... they seemed to shine: light gray, lit by adrenaline and magic, with the pupils reduced to two pinheads. The hatred there was terrible, and as this beautiful avenging spirit was descending upon Raistlin, only the survival instinct rooted in his young body saved the life of the human wizard. Without realizing it, he had raised his arms and gripped the weapon with one hand and the wrist of his attacker with the other, engaging a clumsy struggle to save his life.

"Dalamar... please. It's me. It’s Raistlin," the human begged in a broken voice, realizing how pathetic and untrustworthy he appeared.

If the elf seemed quick and decisive before, now he appeared to be driven by supernatural strength. His almond eyes were full of horror and terror: he feared his enemy and was feverishly trying to finish what he had started as quickly as possible. Between kicks, punches, and shoves, the two wizards twisted in a violent scuffle that was agonizing for both - wounded as they already were.

"Monster..." Dalamar whispered, panting, scratching the face of the human with the splintered peg as Raistlin fought it with every ounce of strength he had. "Raistlin is dead. You will reach him soon. We'll reach him both..."

"No!” the human screamed, “Let me explain!”

Before, Dalamar had always been the stronger of the two. However, the body in which Raistlin now lived was healthy and vigorous. Raistlin did not know how to fight barehanded - and refused to attack Dalamar with his magic - but incredibly, he was managing to avoid being impaled. Barely. His vision blurred while unexpected tears popped up. Everything was going so wrong.

Dalamar suddenly let go of the pointed peg and - grabbing Raistlin’s neck - concentrated all his strength on choking him. He squeezed hard, grinding his teeth in a grimace terrible for the human to look at. Heartbreaking.

Raistlin exhaled the last gasp of air left in his lungs: " _Nal..."_

Hands clenched harder; a knee hit his stomach.

"... _igira."_

***

Suddenly, Dalamar was alone on the floor full of scorched splinters.

 _Nal igira_ , a particularly rapid and very high-level form of teleportation spell. Few sorcerers were powerful enough to cast it. The son of a bitch had escaped yet again.

The elf collapsed on elbows and knees, bowing his head to the ground, suddenly overwhelmed by grief; by exhaustion - mental and physical; by terror; and, above all, by the sense of defeat. Once again, he had messed up... and he did not believe there would be a third chance.

The most absurd thing was to have come this far: the odds had been against Dalamar from the beginning. And yet... he had been so close! Somehow - perhaps because of the concentration needed to prepare the spell that Fistandantilus was processing when he had awoken - the elf had managed to catch the Monster by surprise. The magic had struck - not quite, it was clear that there had been interference, but the physical attack was going well. Damn!

Dalamar heaved, out of breath. He felt empty. Vanquished.

_Why am I still alive?_

After the physical struggle and the casting of the most powerful spell he knew, the fatigue the wizard felt was such that it devoured all the worries and questions about what had happened.

_Why am I still alive?_

Yet that question tormented him. After a few minutes of stillness, Dalamar stood up, shaking off the splinters and wincing to realize how much damage the guards had done to his body. To leave nothing to chance, he checked the door of the small room, and it was almost frightening to find it _not_ locked at all. The handle turned easily, and a cold draft whispered into the room from the darkness beyond. He took a step back.

_Why am I still alive? Why this?_

Taking a deep breath nervously, Dalamar closed his eyes and called to mind the spells he had left at his disposal. Few and not very effective.

 _My grimoire!_ The dark elf whirled around, examining the room. The guards had taken away his dagger, but they had left him both his ring and his book - that Dalaamr carried at his belt in a tailor-made bag like nearly all the wizards of Ansalon. Now he wore no belt, but it took little time to confirm what he had previously glimpsed: the belt, including the book and the small supply of material ingredients for spells, was resting on the bedside table.

As the wizard approached, he also touched the pockets hidden in the sleeves of his robe, where he still had several arcane components for the most crucial attack spells... ones he could use as soon as he found the time to rest and study them again.

Dalamar opened the pouches of his belt, and his reddened fingers caressed the delicate silvery clasps. Spellbook. Components. Some minor magical items. Some herbs, including different poisons. Feeling as if in a dream, he put the belt around his waist and buckled it.

_Why am I still alive?_

The last two years had been strange, but they had been a predictable hell. Now, evidently, factors that Dalamar was unable to understand were at stake; otherwise, he could not explain why he was still breathing. In the Tower of Palanthas, he had been allowed to live after his attack on the Monster, yes - but he had been punished and imprisoned. Now, not only had disobeyed his master by coming here, but he had attacked him again. How was it possible that Fistandantilus had not counterattacked? And indeed, had left him some means to… do something?

 _I should not care about why it happened. I have a new chance to live. Even if I already know I will fall harder, after nurturing this little hope,_ Dalamar scolded himself, tightening his lips. _No. I will not stay locked down here just because I do not understand the situation._

Dalamar needed to escape, find a safe place, rest, study his spells to prepare the best of his limited magical arsenal, and then work out another plan... He had to start somewhere.

The dark elf opened the door and slid silently into the darkness.

*** 

The temperature of the wall dropped slowly, and the red-hot color of the stones became blackened gray. Some of them were a little blunt on the edges.

Raistlin lowered his arms and closed his hands in fists, clenching them until he kneaded his knuckles and cut the flesh of his palms with his fingernails. Standing in front of one of the laboratory walls, he observed this futile waste of energy.

The archmage had appeared in the room a minute ago and - devoured by an uncontrolled fury - he had vented his frustration in a single jet of fire that had almost melted the large blocks of stone in front of him. He knew it was a useless waste of magic. Yet, he found some measure of peace in the weariness he felt now, some way to cool down the raging hell of his thoughts.

At the center of that hell was the expression in Dalamar's face and the memory - the umpteenth memory, this time much more vivid - of those hands wrapped around his throat. 

He just… had to _find a way_ to make the elf understand that things had changed, that for two years, he had lived as someone else. All this, while the elf’s only obsession seemed to be the murder of his master.

When Raistlin had imagined this meeting - in an indistinct future, when he would’ve managed to return to the Present - things would have gone differently. In that wild fantasy, Raistlin could always withdraw and leave Dalamar to his new life if he no longer wanted to deal with him. Instead, they were here, in Istar, trapped in a deadly dance just a month before Cataclysm. Why had Par-Salian sent him back?

Raistlin suddenly tensed. He was so used to his new magical senses, acquired with Fistandantilus’s death, that he was usually unaware of them. He had lived in that basement for several weeks, rarely getting out… and before his death, Fistandantilus had always taken these senses for granted. Now, the mage could distinctly perceive someone was moving in one of the corridors, and he knew very well who it was. Markhus slept in his room - or at least was staring at the ceiling restlessly, between pain and despair. No, it was the other apprentice, instead, who was exploring the corridors like a hunting cat.

_What to do?_

Raistlin had to talk to Dalamr, of course. But... the thought of doing it right away was suddenly very unpleasant. _Years! Years of desiring to make peace with Dalamar, and now all I can feel is the irrepressible urge to get away!_

The wizard kicked a stool. _I need an action plan,_ he told himself; _the situation is complex. I can’t think of him as an ally because right now he is not._ He drew a trembling sigh, then closed his eyes and expanded the sphere of his powers. He studied the elf, watching him from above. He had not even had the opportunity to cure his wounds... even though in the room were the necessities for him to treat himself.

The neighboring rooms were currently in disuse, so the wizard conjured a wall of force right at the end of the corridor and placed it so that it would remain for several hours. Dalamar would be forced to go back into his room: Raistlin did not want Dalamar to meet poor Markhus too soon, nor did he want to meet him right now.

With a shiver of horror at himself, Raistlin woke from his trance and looked around. Then he quickly changed his burned robe with another set, whose velvet was of a particularly sumptuous quality, and teleported away, to the Temple of Paladine.

*** 

It did not take long for Raistlin to analyze the ferment that he found in the halls and corridors of the great Temple of Istar. The wizard recovered several of those lackeys - who, being evidently on the payroll of Fistandantilus for some time, buzzed around him with discretion and significant looks - and set them to work.

Someone attacked a Revered Daughter of Paladine during the night… of course. A terrible, magical, and mysterious wound. Nobody knew who she was, but you know, Istar is a pilgrimage place for clerics of all Ansalon... what a misfortune that a noblewoman so refined and young was dying... As expected, Raistlin recognized Crysania.

The high clerics had decided the Kingpriest himself would ask Paladine to heal her, to show all thieves, murderers, and evil-bewitchers that the platinum dragon was above all the evil… and so on. And what would be the judgment for the attacker? The attackers? No, just one. A big man. In custody of the Temple Guards.

Raistlin paused. Was it possible that the night before he had glimpsed someone else's familiar face while he was crossing the prisons? Maybe…

_In the name of the Abyss!_

Raistlin checked Crysania and decided how and when he would have dealt with her.

He went to prison, killed three men, and retrieved a magical black knife that one guardsman had stolen the night before.

He snatched a big brainless prisoner, accused of attacking a cleric, and sent him as a slave to the Gladiator School in the Arena to purge his idiocy.

Then, suddenly, the list of things to be done was already empty.

Raistlin’s hands, hidden by the voluminous sleeves, were trembling slightly. He slowly returned to his underground den. A black hand was clawing at his heart. Raistlin had wanted to go back to the present for only one reason... and now that reason was here. What would he do if Dalamar refused to forgive him?

 _Dalamar had to listen. At least once._ He would not believe what Raistlin would tell him... but at least he had to know, to know about Fistandantilus. Then, he would send him forward in timeand say farewell to him... probably forever.

_***_

Dalamar had tried to disenchant the wall of strength without success before surrendering to the obvious lack of other escape routes. He even checked the chimney hood, which had turned out to be too narrow, of course. That said, he had retired to his room and, senses alert had done his best to cure his wounds.

The Silvanesti’s previous spell had destroyed the desk, smashing some of the jars of ointment and crockery, spilling water, broth, and stew to the ground… a smelly mess from which the elf retrieved scattered bandages and some antiseptic ointment from an intact jar to treat his worse wounds.

This enigma was driving him crazy. Why had Fistandantilus brought food and medicine? The only plausible explanation was that the ancient sorcerer was about to possess his body: hence the need to treat him and... feed him?

That voice... those eyes...

 _How can you do this to me? How I hate him... how much I hate him! Bastard! He knows exactly what to say to make me suffer!_ And that expression of fear and betrayal, it was so plausible... 

Dalamar's thoughts revolved in swirling spirals, where doubt was choked by bitterness, and hope was devoured by despair. Wearily, he retrieved his improvised weapon – the stake - and put it in his belt. He sat on the bed, his back wedged in the corner of the room, and began studying his grimoire.

The wizard slept a couple of hours, his mind alert against every possible noise. The silence in that corner of Krynn was black and incoherent. There was little wood, and the fire in the fireplace was going weaker. When he awoke, Dalamar pushed some smaller pieces of the table in the hearth and resumed reading his grimoire, tirelessly memorizing the most powerful spells he knew.

Suddenly the elf jerked his head from the book, staring at the door in the dying light: he had not heard any noise, but something in the air had changed. He could feel a faint tingling on his skin. Magic.

Then his sensitive eyes caught a slight ripple in the air: as if the light from the fireplace and the faint smoke coming out of it was bouncing off a glass surface. Dalamar moved his head, studying the optical phenomenon, then picked up a wooden splinter and threw it in front of him, confirming his hypothesis: a new wall of strength was there, cutting the floor of the room in two. The young mage was trapped in his corner. He swallowed and prepared for the worst.

Then, the door opened and Fistandantilus entered.

_Greenedera_

________________________________

Next Chapter: Vortex

[Pic: Dalamar's spell, from my Deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Dalamar-s-spell-860048707)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @IsabelleM for the amazing beta of this chapter.  
> 12/05/2020 published  
> 01/11/2020 edited!


	6. Vortex

***

The Master of Past and Present was the same... and different, all at once. He resembled Raistlin as he’d appeared the day Dalamar had met him, ten years before: red hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Yet, his features were somewhat altered. He wore that new body badly: his shoulders were bent, his head tilted slightly forward. Dalamar thought he resembled the real Raistlin more now than when he was wearing his skin, in the Tower of Palanthas.

Leaning on the Staff of Magius, the wizard entered and closed the door, then stared at the elf with expressionless eyes, cold as mirrors and blue as a winter sky. He wore a short black tunic and long breeches of black cloth, which made him look even thinner and more insignificant than ever.

Dalamar tightened his jaw and exhibited his best impassive mask, closing the book and slowly rising to his feet.

On the neck of Fistandantilus, the bruises were black and purple and stood out against the white skin. On the golden skin of Raistlin, they would have been dark brown shadows, burnished bronze...

 _The bastard plays well_ , thought Dalamar with a tightened heart.

Then the ancient sorcerer bowed his head and knelt on the ground, remaining behind the invisible wall of force. He placed two objects on the floor: the Staff of Magius - whose crystal was dark - and a familiar black dagger.

Dalamar squeezed between his fingers the components of the spell he planned to launch at the first opportunity, balancing that choice against the option of a sudden sprint. At the same time, agitation and anxiety kept a constant grip on his heart. What spell would burst forth from the Monster in front of him, that he must kneel on the ground to summon it?

"It was the seventh day of the seventh month when I faced my Test," the other said unexpectedly, staring at the floor, his voice and intonation so familiar as to freeze the elf. He hadn’t heard that crisp accent in two years.

"It all seemed so easy. Everything seemed so real. While travelling in a timeless dream, a group of dark elves proposed to rob Lemuel's house. As you already know, I accepted. What I have never been able to tell you is who I met in the basement of that house." The red-haired human stopped to clear his throat, then looked up at Dalamar.

Dalamar had vaguely felt his mouth open wide in an "o" of astonishment. His mind was screaming strong and conflicting messages.

_The umpteenth, horrid trick to make me suffer. No. This does not..._

_Because I'd be able to recognise Raistlin... wouldn’t I?_

"His name was Fistandantilus," continued the other, undeterred, with a hoarse voice. He breathed hesitantly as if expecting to cough. But his chest rose normally. Dalamar stared at that strange yet familiar face, stunned.

"Known as the Dark One. You've heard of him as a historical figure who died in the War of the Dwarven Gate. It's not like that: he was a Lich, and he survived for centuries infesting the students' Tests to suck away their lives, prolonging the existence of his spirit. The apprentices who met him were usually killed by the undead wizard in the process... or by the Conclave itself."

The young wizard spoke without inflexion, with the air of those who try to give as much information as possible in the shortest time, but without ever losing rhythm or hesitating. As if all this was a lengthy spell learned by heart, studied for a long, long time.

"We met, and while the Conclave was preparing to kill me, we made a deal. In exchange for Fistandantilus’ help to pass the Test against the concurrent emissaries, I promised him my life force. At the end of it all, I thought I had the better of him when I deceived and betrayed the old ghost. Instead, I came out of my Test carrying inside myself the sleeping shadow of a monster. The shame of my failure to pass the Test by my strength was such that I could not talk about it before I discovered that the unknown disease that afflicted me could, in turn, prevent me from naming that Lich, and all that concerned him. In the two years before the War of the Lance... " 

The archmage went on to speak. Again, and again. Looking at the elf always straight in the eye, but without questioning him, without pausing to allow the other to intervene.

Not that Dalamar had anything to say at the moment. One part of him wanted to shout the name of Raistlin, run to meet him, break through the wall of force, throw his arms around his neck. He desperately wanted to believe him. The facts were so plausible, and his words were... but how could he believe _that_ ? After all that had happened? A deception, it could only be the new peak reached by the latest elaborate deception. At the same time, Dalamar felt the urge to attack that _creature_ , for torturing him with such a tantalising tale.

_If it's a lie, he's weaving it damn well._

The narration continued. A long, complex monologue that shed light on so many events, so many situations, especially unpleasant ones. If all that was true, how many misunderstandings had arisen from Fistandantilus' curse From that Test, seven years before?

Dalamar felt his eyes sting. He would not cry, of course: he had already shed his last tears of farewell long ago. What was happening? Who was the man in front of him?

 _Concentrate,_ he told himself _. Listen. If you ever get out of this, any scrap of knowledge could help you._

Truth or lies -Whatever it was, how could he get out alive?

The story corresponded so well to the theory that Dalamar had been elaborating for years, that it seemed to have been made on purpose to feed his illusions. The Conclave itself had not believed him.

"...and so, I accepted, without understanding all the consequences of that gesture. I do not remember anything else from King Lorac’s Nightmare. When I woke up, the Dragon Orb was in our possession. That was the first time Fistandantilus took complete control of my body..."

 _Wait -_ Dalamar was about to speak, to interrupt the man. He wanted to know more about Lorac's Nightmare, but he remained silent instead. It did not seem possible to interact with the kneeling figure in front of him. As if it were an elaborate illusion. Still, Dalamar had not even tried. 

"...every time I studied the Dragon Orb, that conflict became more acute…”

"...on the _Perechon_ , I lost a battle that annihilated my conscience for the next two years. Thus, I became a mere shadow in the mind of the Lich, a prisoner without a body, devoid of voice and substance. We had exchanged positions, and I was vaguely aware of the actions of a mad man thirsting for power and wearing my body. The moments in which I could see through his eyes were rare, so even the passing of time followed the irregular rhythm typical of dreams. In the caves of Neraka, for example, I managed to intervene just enough to stop him from killing you, but I could not do anything else, because Fistandantilus's will was strong. For a long time, I've been held in a formless limbo."

Dalamar realised he had slipped to the ground, kneeling in turn. He held the pointed pole in his hand like a talisman. The young wizard in front of the elf had tears in his eyes as he spoke, although his face was stiffened in a controlled mask. His eyes were bright, almost turquoise. 

_If this is the biggest and most elaborate plan of the Lich to destroy me, then I can die deceiving myself to believe it. I would be a poor fool, but a happy fool._ The elf bit his lips, trying to stay still. 

"...fleeting impressions. For example, I knew that Fistandantilus had received an apprentice from the Conclave, I knew he hated him... but I did not know his identity. It would have seemed like a masterly joke to him..." A single cough - dry, nervous - interrupted the narrative, and the human lowered his face, partially concealing an expression of shame. "...yet one _the Monster_ has somehow preferred to keep secret from me." 

The young wizard breathed deeply and quickly, then raised his head and went on. "I knew something about Fistandantilus' plan to enter the Abyss, and I studied every corner of his mind for a long time, looking for a way out. I found it, identifying his moment of greatest vulnerability when he would have challenged and killed himself in the past... and so at that moment, I struck. I came out the winner. I live in the body of a stranger - mine and not mine at the same time, as a result of the magical battle between the three of us - but... I have my mind back."

A deafening silence fell. Dalamar stared wide-eyed as the man in front of him bowed his head again, and the elf barely heard the words he whispered: "I'm preparing you a Timespin Spell, to send you back to your time." 

"What?" The exclamation left Dalamar's mouth before he could stop. 

"I can’t go back,” Raistlin replied. "I am stuck in this timeline, and maybe my return plan will not work at all. That's why it's imperative that you return as soon as possible, and according to my calculations the Timespin Spell should work for you without incident." The man spoke in a low, intense voice, not looking up from the floor.

Shocked, Dalamar realised that the magical wall of force trapping him was gone. Wrapped in a sense of fatalism, the dark elf stood up and approached slowly, until he towered over the young man kneeling on the floor, who now kept his eyes closed. At his feet, the Staff of Magius and the dagger seemed to be two patches of darkness in the dim light cast by the dying fire. 

Dalamar gripped tighter the amber and the fragment of fur he held in one hand, and the rough wooden table leg he still held in the other. He could thrust that stake into the neck of the man who knelt at his feet: his light tunic revealed the profile of the delicate bones of his back. Or he could summon the lightning and immolate them both in an electric cage. Slowly, Dalamar raised his hands. 

The human mage let his face fall into his hands. 

Suddenly, the dark elf dropped his weapons, breathing heavily. Raistlin raised his head, and in his helpless expression, Dalamar allowed himself to read - or to delude himself to read - long-forgotten feelings. Devotion. Love. Belonging. Shame. 

_I can die, looking into these eyes._ "Raistlin," exhaled Dalamar. He quashed his fear mercilessly, collapsed to his knees and grabbed the other’s head in his hands, closed his eyes, and devoured his lips in a kiss, sincerely expecting to die within a few moments. He bit those thin lips, parting them and savouring his last moments of life. 

But Raistlin sobbed, returning the kiss with a quiet whine; he opened his mouth to caress the elf’s tongue with his, then he grabbed the front of Dalamar's robe, clutching at him. 

The elf gasped in pain, crumpling over himself as trails of fire clawed at his chest, the wound, the raw skin, the flesh, and the bones below. 

"No!” stammered the human, immediately letting go, “Forgive me! Please, sorry, don’t…” Raistlin spread his hands and repositioned them gently on the elf's shoulders. Afterwards he placed them on Dalamar's still curved back, squeezing him tightly to his chest. "I did not want to. I did not remember your wounds... Sorry, so sorry," he murmured, stroking the other's sleek black hair. 

Dalamar slowly withdrew, looking at... Raistlin?... in the eyes, looking for a lie and finding none. He shook his head incredulously, while cautiously loosening the fabric of his robe around his chest, detaching it from the stain of fresh blood that had already formed over the five wounds dealt by Fistandantilus. 

"It's all right. I just … did not expect any of this," said Dalamar in a barely audible voice. But he still expected a blow—the revelation of an elaborate deception. 

In Raistlin's eyes, however, there were still the same emotions as before: Dalamar could witness in those blue depths the burning fires of shame, concern, fear… and so many other things. Sitting with stooped shoulders, the human hesitantly took Dalamar's head and placed a light kiss on it, then laid his forehead against the elf’s, hands threaded in the black hair. 

"I will find a way to free you from that curse,” Raistlin whispered. “I swear it." 

They stayed like that. In the deafening chaos of Dalamar's emotions, a thought emerged. 

_That's all?_

_It's …over?_

_Is this all true?_

"Raistlin?" the elf asked, his tone so different as to be unrecognisable to his ears. He moved his head away, looking into those eyes, digging till he could stare at the bare soul of his beloved. Yes. 

"Dalamar," the other whispered. "Please. Say that you believe me." 

Dalamar hugged him, mindful of his wounds, nuzzling his face in that red hair, strange and yet completely familiar. He inhaled Raistlin's scent: a familiar one, of roses, spices, sulfur and magic. The Silvanesti relished the warm, familiar skin. The frosty aura that had accompanied Fistandantilus was gone, and he felt his face split in an involuntary, incredulous smile. "Yes," Dalamar answered after a few seconds, during which he had swallowed a knot in his throat. It was painful: he had never given vent to his emotions in these last years. "Yes, I suspected it. During my Test, I collected clues... I knew that there was someone else inside your head. And I suspected the archmage known as the Dark One could have been behind this." 

"I just hope one day you will forgive me," Raistlin whispered, his voice choking against the elf's shoulder. 

Dalamar went completely still for several heartbeats but kept his eyes on the human. 

Dalamar could, or perhaps had to, answer with something like: _I have already forgiven you_. They seemed like such simple words. A cliché. But he remained silent, stroking the silky hair. It was still… all too strange. And it was very difficult. He took a slow breath and reached for Raistlin again, kissing his forehead as the other leaned to the touch. 

Then Dalamar shifted - the floor was hard and cold under his knees. He got up and prompted Raistlin to do the same, picking up the Staff of Magius and using it to help himself. The young man leaned against it, wrapping his forearm around the wood and holding it close to his chest: the elf had not seen that possessive gesture for two years. The Monster had despised the use of any magical item, and often abandoned the Staff in a corner of the room, even if he never left it out of his sight. In his other hand, Raistlin was holding the black knife, and he offered it to Dalamar, who slowly took it and put it back in his belt. 

Dalamar stared at Raistlin in silence for some seconds, trying to rearrange his thoughts. Then, he grabbed the other's hands into his, drawing him closer. "Please forgive me for attacking you some hours ago,” Dalamar said with embarrassment and still a lot of light-headed confusion. “I thought you were _Him_. I thought the real you had died two years ago." 

Raistlin glanced away, a tormented expression on his face. "There's nothing to forget. I understand you. With all he did to you, I can only give you reason." 

Raistlin raised his head, meeting Dalamar's gaze. "Now I have access to Fistandantilus' memories, although I have to spend great concentration to read them. I know about your injuries; I know about all your fights. Having the chance to take revenge, and to defeat him, I did not hesitate to strike: certainly, I don't blame you for doing the same." 

Raistlin walked to the bed and sat there. "I have a lot of difficulty coping with what happened. More than anything else, to face you." The mage looked down, fiddling with a ring, and studying it with exaggerated attention. "But I do not mean to break my old oath: I belong to you. I will do everything in my power for you: to free you from the curse, to bring you home and to undo the evil that... that I have done to you”. 

Slowly, frowning, Dalamar sat down next to Raistlin and took one warm and elegant hand in his. The elf felt so tired; he could almost imagine his energy drying up minute by minute. 

"Raistlin...” Dalamar felt his lips curving in a sad wry smile. “I came here to avenge your death, knowing very well that I would probably find my own. And now… you are here, alive and free. I don’t care about anything else. Together, we can try to put the pieces back. Come back home with me." 

"Dalamar, you do not understand," said Raistlin, looking frustrated and speaking quickly: "I cannot return to the Present. The Gods are preventing that. With the death of Fistandantilus, a situation has been created such that I am obliged to follow his tracks because the fabric of Time is stronger than me. Astinius of Palanthas has confirmed this. What I can do is move along the footsteps of Fistandantilus and, from there, look for a solution. Currently, my best prospect is to use the Abyss itself as a portal to return to our time." 

"What!" exclaimed the elf, terrified, feeling a spike of alarm through his body. No, it was not possible he was hearing those words! "Do you still want to enter the Abyss?" 

"Do not misunderstand, please,” answered Raistlin, squeezing Dalamar's hand. “I do not want to attack the Dark Queen or to become a God. But I do want to go home, and this is the only way I can do it. Fistandantilus entered - he tried to enter - in the Abyss, destroying Zhaman when he failed, in the year of the Dwarven Gate War... I must take advantage of this; I have to do the same. I will exploit the Abyss in a different way..." 

Dalamar was horrified. "Raistlin, no…" he interrupted him, "Do not do anything like that... It's crazy. Don’t you realise? We are together, and we are alive... can’t you come back to our time? And what do we care, anyway? The Conclave is eager to kill you." 

Raistlin stared at him in silence. 

"Let's stay here," the elf whispered. "Fuck everyone else." 

Raistlin shook his head, the shadow of a sly smile quickly turning into a sad expression. "I'd like to say yes, Dalamar. But it is not possible. Events... are stronger. The events would still lead me to make that leap in time, and everything we tried to prevent it would be crushed like grass under a boulder that rolls down a hill. My hands are tied by the Law of Temporal Necessity. " 

They remained silent. While reflecting on these words, Dalamar was caressing Raistlin's fingers, watching them intently. 

"No!" The human stood up abruptly, withdrawing his hands. 

"What..." Dalamar started to say, alarmed, and got up in turn, but then he staggered, his legs wobbly, and had to sit heavily on the bed. The elf felt a weight in the depth of his heart. 

"No! Damn! Not this!" Raistlin shouted in a shrill voice, pulling back and rummaging in the collar of his robe. He took out a little stone pendant and ripped it off the chain, throwing it against the wall. However, the moment it left his fingers, the pendant disappeared and reappeared innocently in its original place, tied to the sorcerer's neck. 

"Raistlin, what just happened?" asked the young Silvanesti in a cool voice, trying to hide his dismay.

Raistlin was panting. "I cannot stop it, Dalamar," he replied bitterly, looking at the other with shame. "This damned spell. You are one of the prey of the bloodstone. This magical artifact is what kept Fistandantilus alive for centuries, allowing him to suck the life of other beings to prolong his. The Lich had largely guarded his most important spell, and I can’t get rid of it. Your curse, Dalamar, your wound is tied to Fistandantilus’s power, and the bloodstone is drinking your life. It accelerated when we touched. Our physical contact has accelerated the draining of energies that this artifact has been instructed to accomplish. I did not notice it before." 

Dalamar braced his head on one hand, horrified.

Raistlin exhaled a shaky breath and knelt in front of the dark elf, taking care to place his hands on the bed, on either side of his companion. 

"Believe me, Dalamar, if I could give my life to cure you, I would do it. Indeed," he added in a whisper, reflecting, "perhaps it will be the only solution available to us in the end..."

"Do _not_ say that!" exclaimed Dalamar, a stricken look on his face. We can get out of this, but we have to do it together." 

"Let's say that, before I get to that point, there are other ways we can try,” conceded Raistlin. “If I could unlock time travel, I could go back to the past and study the very first experiments of Fistandantilus, to understand how to reverse these effects." 

A pause. Then Dalamar spoke: "But - if I understood correctly - to unlock time travel, you are planning to return to the present time through the Abyss. As if it was a shortcut through the fields." 

Raistlin shook his head slowly. "I have no choice. Trust me; it’s the only way." 

The elf, still unbelieving, sighed. "So... you need Lady Crysania. Will you continue the work of seduction you started, to get her help in this venture?" 

"Damnation, Dalamar!" Raistlin exclaimed, standing up and pacing in the room. "I have no intention of lowering myself that much. I intend to make her open the Portal of the Abyss, and that's it." 

The elf shrugged. "She could expect something different from you after what the Monster told her," Dalamar said polemically. Then he bit his lips, thinking he was behaving like a fool. _Am I really complaining? After having just discovered Raistlin is alive?_

Raistlin was staring at the elf with a dark expression. "If that so, you will help me find a way to delude her in the right way! Or we will use another cleric, if necessary. I have already found another powerful enough... though not as stupid and malleable as Crysania. He's called Denubis." 

Dalamar shook his head. "This is all so convoluted. But..." he stood up and approached Raistlin, and then gently kissed him before the other withdrew with a scowl. "We'll find a way. I cannot believe you're here again, in front of me. Things have changed between us, and they are considerably complicated, but what matters is that we are together again." 

Raistlin swallowed. "Regardless of what happens, Dalamar,” he whispered, stroking the elf's hair with a delicate touch, threading his fingers in the long black strands, “remember this: I belong to you, and you belong to me."

_Greenedera_

______________________

Next Chapter: Tide

[Pic: Raistlin's despair - from my deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Raistlin-s-despair-860130104)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @IsabelleM for the amazing beta of this chapter.
> 
> This scene was THE scene I started writing this fanfic for. I had it vaguely in my mind and all I knew was that I needed Raistlin and Dalamar to get just "here". What next? Well, the situation is still messy. So, I thought, let's discover what happens next, and I resumed writing.


	7. Tide

***

“How did you get to this Time?” asked Raistlin, an hour later, his hands cradling a cup of tea. His voice was quiet. “How did you convince Par-Salian to send you to the past? I assume it was him, as I know of no other sorcerer powerful enough to cast a Timespin spell.” 

The two wizards sat in front of a roaring fire in Raistlin’s rooms. Fistandantilus’s. Whatever. The Silvanesti wore warm, clean robes now, and Raistlin had meticulously medicated the elf’s wounds. Raistlin’s fingers had been light as butterflies while almost avoiding the dangerous physical contact. The water clock ticked past nine in the morning, but time had only relative importance in the perpetual darkness of that underground room. 

“I did not convince Par-Salian of anything,” Dalamar answered, bitterly. “Fistandantilus had already manipulated him to the point that he did not believe me when I managed to escape Palanthas and denounce the Lich’s plan to the Conclave. Par-Salian did precisely as the Lich expected concerning Crysania: he sent her back in time with your brother, the designated bodyguard. They are both here in Istar, now."

Raistlin’s face was sour. “Yes. Fistandantilus had foreseen everything. Even the possibility that Caramon would be accompanying her. I have already provided for him, too,” he added with a merciless glint in his eyes.

“How?” 

“I made sure that the guards sold him to the slave market. I bought the piece of shit and threw him into the pits of the Arena,” the human replied with a sly smile.

Dalamar blinked. “Into the Arena? What’s the purpose of that?” 

“They will keep him busy for a while. I can retrieve him at any time or leave him there,” the archmage pointed out, quite pleased with himself.

“You have not decided yet?” the elf asked with a frown.

“There are... factors I must consider. Much will depend on the information I’ll receive from you and our lady cleric.” 

Dalamar’s lips curled slightly. “The fighting pits of the Arena... a dangerous place. Potentially deadly.” 

They shared a cruel smile. Raistlin shrugged. “Tell me more about Par-Salian.” 

Dalamar shifted uncomfortably. “When he cast his spell, Par-Salian made a couple of minor mishaps. Surely, he expected neither a dagger in his stomach nor my sudden intrusion.” 

Raistlin shook his head in disbelief, his lips slightly curved in a mischievous smile. “And then?” he whispered. 

“Well, in the general confusion, I snuck into the spell. Let’s say that the intrusion of the kender was an excellent diversion, as well…” 

Raistlin gasped and stood up suddenly, letting go of his cup, which shattered on the floor. His eyes were wide open, showing the white all around. For a few seconds, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. 

“…kender?” 

“Tasslehoff,” the elf answered, not understanding how a kender could eclipse the news of the HIghmage with a span of steel in his gut. “He arrived at the Tower of Wayreth with your brother and slipped into the Timespin’s circle with me, in the general hustle and bustle.” 

Raistlin sat down, a horrified expression on his face. “A kender back in time!” he exclaimed in a shrill voice. 

Dalamar frowned, feeling an unpleasant sensation crawling in his stomach. “Yes, you’re right, of course. Tas will likely cause some mischief,” he said cautiously. “Otherwise, what does that matter? He is probably already dead or halfway from here to Ergoth. It did not seem to me that the guards caught him when they arrested us.” 

“No!” the wizard interrupted. “You do not realize it because you do not _know!_ Dalamar, none of the races traditionally associated with the Gemstone of Gargath may travel in time! They could destroy the fabric of existence!” 

Dalamar sat back, sipping his tea to mask his uneasiness and fear. “Yes, I recall that Par-Salian seemed quite upset by the kender’s intrusion, more so than by mine.”

“Par-Salian is an idiot and a son of a bitch, but he obviously read the disclaimer accompanying the spell!” spat Raistlin. Then he remained silent, staring ahead of himself as if he were rereading the pages of that same spellbook in his mind. 

“I have to reflect on the consequences of this event,” the young man finally whispered. “Even before I deal with Crysania, I must recover that kender,” he added in a raw tone. “I have to decide if... I can find other uses for his presence here. I’d rather not kill him unless it’s strictly necessary.” 

Dalamar silently waited for another explanation, then shrugged. For him, whether the kender lived or died would change nothing. Raistlin had always had a soft spot for Tasslehoff; Dalamar, no. “The kender is likely to gravitate around Caramon,” he commented. 

Raistlin raised his head. “The slave market! I could activate my spies to keep an eye on any kender in the vicinity of Caramon.” 

Dalamar frowned slightly at this turn in the conversation. “Your spies?” he asked. 

“Fistandantilus had… _has_ many spies, even in the city guard: some of them have the task of providing him with the first choice between prisoners and slaves to get test-subjects for his experiments... with a fondness for young wizards. That’s how I knew about you,” clarified Raistlin with a pained expression. 

Despite himself, the elf felt a weight in his stomach. “Tell me more,” he said weakly. 

Raistlin shot him a sharp look, then he explained. “Fistandantilus was able to maintain his position in Istar by a certain... permissiveness from the King-Priest himself, combined with a great network of spies and lackeys. Many of them are on the payroll of both, but the Dark One is scarier and needs a lot of fresh meat.” 

Raistlin’s voice lowered. “Although he could have abducted anyone he wanted, from anywhere, he had some sort of agreement about improper or violent prisoners. He made them disappear, and the Kingpriest turned a blind eye. So Fistandantilus was... or rather, even now _is_ notified when someone interesting arrives. He could drain life from anyone, but he preferred wizards so that he could take possession of their magical potential as well. And so, as soon as they caught you, I knew it. Caramon was an _extra_ of secondary importance.” 

Dalamar shivered, shaking his head. “I’ve never had a real chance to defeat Fistandantilus, have I?” he commented bitterly. “In two years, I just found different ways to get me killed. Even here in Istar... I would have been completely at his mercy. What a fool I was.” 

Raistlin leaned over and squeezed his shoulder, letting him go immediately for fear of activating the bloodstone. “Fistandantilus had both of us at his mercy, Dalamar. He was too powerful.” 

“But at least you made it. You defeated the Lich in the end. You’ve always been the smartest of us.” 

Raistlin shrugged. “I had nothing more to lose. I risked everything, and even now, I’m not free from all the consequences of his actions. Nobody has ever routed him. Not even the explosion of Zhaman we know from history, even _that_ managed to destroy only his physical body.”

“And now?” Dalamar dared to ask, with both genuine curiosity and serious worry about finding out the answer.

“Now there is my mind in this body. But, Dalamar, this is not the point: Fistandantilus had enough power to think he could defeat _Takhisis_... no wonder he could manipulate two inexperienced youngsters like us.” 

The elf took a deep breath, remaining silent, looking at the human with worried eyes. The other stared back. In their thoughts, the two wizards shared the same question: _and now... has Fistandantilus truly disappeared forever?_

Raistlin looked away and shifted, fussing with his robes before speaking. “I took his place in history. He is gone, and I am here. Only me.” 

Dalamar shivered. The silence became oppressive. “Now all his power is in your hands,” he commented, trying to lift Raistlin’s heart. 

The other brooded in silence for a few seconds before answering. “Yes and no. There is the potential. There is some knowledge... but there are also some gaps. It’s as if to make room for my memories of Raistlin Majere I had to... stack his in a corner, crushing them, confusing them. I cannot explain it better than that, at least for now. I’m not able to do everything he could, aside from the fact that I do not have the same wickedness to guide me. If you only knew what horrors the Lich did to keep himself alive...” his voice trailed off, as he seemed to stare at something else. 

“You will tell me everything,” ordered Dalamar in a gentle tone. “It is useless to carry this weight alone. And I think it is important that we understand your full potential - and your chances of survival in the Abyss. Are you sure that crossing the Abyss is the only way to free yourself from the fate of Fistandantilus and return to the present?”

Raistlin leaned across the table, resting his elbows on it and plunging his head into his hands. “Yes.” 

“Tell me,” whispered Dalamar, his voice lost.

***

In the next three hours, Raistlin recounted in detail his experiments with time travel and all the information he had gathered that had led to the only option available to him: the Abyss. 

Dalamar listened to everything, rarely interrupting, and only then to clarify information. However, when Raistlin’s voice went out, the elf remained silent for a long time, his gaze doubtful: he could not accept the idea that there was no other possibility, another way that they had not yet considered. 

“I wondered for a long time,” Raistlin intervened, after a few minutes of silence, “why Astinus of Palanthas, famous for being impartial, emotionless and careful not to influence the events of history was so... unpleasant, almost rude, during our meeting. I have concluded that it is because Fistandantilus’s plan to go back in time and kill his past self had truly pissed him off. Astinus’ precious history, in danger of entering an infinite loop or, worse, of collapsing entirely. All his carefully written books, ruined, the tapestry of history needing to be repaired and woven again. It was almost entertaining to see him so upset and displeased. I wonder what he would say now that even a kender has traveled through time.”

Dalamar shook his head, wondering. “But... what if we found out how to make the events of Zhaman happen - the magical explosion in the middle of the War of the Dwarven Gate and the ensuing massacre - without you entering the Abyss?”

Raistlin raised an eyebrow.

“We could trigger the events and then simply get the hell out of there,” the elf said with passion. “Let us flee away, remaining in the year of the Dwarfgate war. Krynn is a big place: we can live as two renegade wizards who occupy one of the many abandoned ruins and build our new life there. Why not... we are two exiles. What do we care about our surroundings? By returning to our own time, we would only find legions of enemies.”

Raistlin looked at him with a half-smile in his eyes, his lips slightly curved. “Your plan intrigues me. If we were able to do it, I would seize the opportunity,” he said slowly. “You already know: I’d much prefer to stay in the past, having you by my side, although the idea that after my old age and death, you would be trapped in an epoch like this does not thrill me. Hang on,” he raised a hand, blocking Dalamar, who was about to interrupt. “But all this cannot happen. It is not possible. I believe that, following the destruction of Zhaman, this body will no longer exist.”

The elf reconsidered, taken aback. “Why not?”

“The River of Time has... laws.” Raistlin leaned in his chair and steepled his fingers. “We are not living in this era for the first time. Our ancestors lived it, and after our birth, we came back, and now we are modifying it... but we can only succeed to a certain extent. How much? This is difficult to measure or to predict. However, history tells us that the physical body of Fistandantilus was destroyed in Zhaman. I do not think we will be able to change that fact. We risk that, during our eventual escape into a forgotten corner of Krynn, anything could happen, killing me. A tile on my head, an arrow from an ambush. The Temporal Necessity would be compensated, I would die completely, and you would be trapped here. I do not think we’ll be able to prevent this chain of events.” 

“Not even using the kender?” asked the elf, who was massaging his temples. The subject was mind-blowing.

Raistlin fell silent, staring at the table, a distraught expression on his face. Several minutes passed, during which the Silvanesti let him be and went to add wood to the fireplace and heat more water. Looking at the objects in the room, Dalamar was relieved to see much that was familiar: in how a garment was folded, in how the books on the shelves were aligned, he could see Raistlin’s personality and savor the familiarity of those elements. It was strange how much he felt heartened in front of them. 

“The kender is a chaotic element,” Raistlin finally answered, still reflecting. “I think this could... widen the plots of fate, giving us more freedom of movement but... I fear it could easily upset our plans, rather than helping us to mold the events in the direction we choose. The magical distortion that would be created using a kender in key historical events and high-level spells could simply kill us all. I have not discarded this hypothesis yet, mind you. I must think about it again. I wonder if there are literary references somewhere...” 

Dalamar had carefully studied and then sniffed the contents of different jars of herbs - painstakingly cataloged with the old Lich’s calligraphy - before taking some fragrant leaves. He found another cup for Raistlin, added the water, and put the herbs in infusion as he spoke: “Think about it, Raistlin. Not only do I not like the idea of you entering the Abyss, but I don’t think it’s the right way to solve your problem.”

“I understand, but ...” 

“No, just let me finish,” Dalamar replied, mixing the tea and then placing it in front of Raistlin with a thud. “If, according to what you said before, you would enter the Abyss without a real, physical body, how do you expect to get out unscathed from the other side, in our own time?” The elf could not deny that his ignorance of these issues frustrated him very much. 

Raistlin looked down at the cup. “I should enter the Abyss with an... impression of my physical body. The Abyss is not a completely material plane of existence. Being its destiny, this body,” he vaguely pointed to himself with a thin hand, “will be destroyed in the act of entering the Portal, as the same will happen to the cleric who will accompany me. In there, our minds will control the way we will appear.” 

He drank, then continued to speak, his eyes lowered on the mug. “When I get out of it - and clearly, I will - I plan to get back into the body I had when I left the present.” 

“You’re not sure.”

“No.”

 _Oh, Nuitari._ Dalamar’s heart sank. “Are you telling me that you could be trapped in the Abyss, without hope of returning with a physical body? And that you would take the risk and try it anyway?” he said, raising his voice.

“Dalamar!” lashed Raistlin losing his temper, then paused. “Fistandantilus has gone back in time with my body, and then he has _fucking murdered_ his past self!” Raistlin added harshly.

“That’s right!” replied Dalamar. “And if the old Fistandantilus is dead, why in the name of the Abyss do you not look the same as you did when you went back in time? I don’t understand, Raistlin, you _resemble_ your old self, but this body is not the same one!” 

“Because my old body couldn’t exist here! It is as if it _died_!” shouted Raistlin, articulating every single word hoarsely. 

The elf froze as the horror of that concept sank completely into his consciousness. Yes, Raistlin had explained to him what had happened, but he somehow understood that... no, he did not understand anything. He looked at the young man in front of him, wondering who he indeed was. Everything - his words, his mannerisms, his inflection - made him think that he was Raistlin but... how? 

“So, you already know that you will fail,” whispered Dalama, his lips numb. “You won’t be able to leave the Abyss. During the battle between the two Fistandantiluses, something happened to your original body, and it died...”

“No. It didn’t just die,” Raistlin interrupted sternly, “let’s say that my essence and that of Fistandantilus fused, and this body is the result.”

Dalamar shook his head, unable to follow this explanation. “So. Your old body ‘kind of’ died here. Your current body will ‘kind of’ die in the near future, upon entering the Abyss,” he said bitterly. “What will you do then? How could you return to our time, without a body? Will you attack the mind of young apprentices during their Test of High Sorcery to survive through time?” 

The blow hit almost physically: Raistlin winced and turned his head, hiding his expression and breathing heavily. After a minute of silence, during which both wizards remained motionless, the human turned. His eyes, burning with determination, rested on Dalamar. 

“I’ll prove you’re wrong,” Raistlin hissed. “One cannot kill his old self in the past without creating a tear in the fabric of time, one that the Gods would be _so_ willing to repair, to protect their world. So, I took the place of Fistandantilus. I’ll come back in the future and will take the place of Raistlin Majere.” 

It sounded crazy, like Fistandantilus’s original plan to challenge the Dark Queen in person. 

“It’s a dangerous gamble,” Dalamar said in a colorless voice. 

“It’s a risk,” the other said in a low tone, his face transfigured with anger. “But I will not get anything without risking. If I am Fistandantilus now - the only true Fistandantilus of this moment in the River of Time - isn’t it natural that if I were traveling in the future, I would deal with the body of Raistlin Majere? Raistlin, who is not mentioned in the present-day books of the Great Library of Palanthas? Where is ‘Raistlin’ gone? Do you know that the other body - old Fistandantilus’s - has decomposed overnight, then disappeared? If it’s not here, where is it? The Gods have wiped it from the face of Ansalon! So... I will retake the real Raistlin’s body back in the future! Besides, I will not return with a Timespin Spell, which carries the physical body and the soul inside it. I will pass through the Abyss, from the immaterial dwelling of the Gods, and I will come out with my damned golden skin and my fucking hourglass eyes, but I will have a body. This solution _will work_.” Raistlin’s eyes sparkled with fury and determination. 

Dalamar was frozen and terrified. Hearing the man in front of him talking about “Raistlin” in the third person was frightening and raised all the doubts he was trying to appease. He rested his forehead in one hand, closing his eyes. He heard the chair in front of him move and rustling of clothes, but he remained motionless.

Light fingers gently touched the elf’s hair, moving like silk spiders on his cheeks, cheekbones, ears until they settled on the fabric of his hood, which was lowered over the elf’s shoulders. Despite the thick cloth, Dalamar could feel the warmth of those hands. He opened his eyes and raised his head while the familiar scent of arcane components filled his nostrils. Raistlin was standing in front of him, looking down. 

“Undoubtedly,” the young man said in a quiet voice, “things aren’t going as I’d like them to. When I developed this plan, I believed you to be safe, in our time... possibly with a new life to think about, after I had betrayed and abandoned you. I believed I had all the time in the world at my disposal because you had already given me up for lost. If I had died here, or in the Abyss, what difference would it have made to you?” he concluded with rhetorical bitterness. 

Dalamar sighed, gently leaning his head against Raistlin’s chest. The other wizard took a step back.

“I get that, in this time, you are free from the curse that afflicted your body after your Test,” the elf murmured, changing the subject to give himself some time to let the new information sink in. Raistlin lightly caressed Dalamar’s cheekbone with his thumb, without answering, then retracted his hand before the bloodstone activated.

“You said that...” the dark elf trailed off, then blushed. “I’m sorry. Fistandantilus, in the Tower, said that since the Test, your cursed eyes saw everyone dying and decaying. Even me. Please, answer sincerely. Was it true?”

Raistlin closed his eyes and sighed. “It was. I didn’t want you to know. However, the fact that you are a rather young elf helped me avoid the worst of it with you,” he caressed Dalamar’s shoulders, then grabbed the velvet of the cowl again. “But it’s nice to see you again as you are, love.” 

The dark elf, saddened, started to answer - he had a million questions - but Raistlin resumed. “However, my curse is irrelevant. Let’s talk about serious things. You cannot stay here. It’s too risky. At any moment, I could discover other variables, other factors that could influence the success of my plan, which is already daring as it is. I must send you back to the present as soon as possible.” 

Cradled by the familiar scent, the elf took a few seconds to react to those words, then he straightened up, but was interrupted again. Raistlin’s eyes were cold, like mirrors.

“I cannot risk keeping you here with me any longer. What will I do if my Timespin spell does not also work with you?” The other said, clenching his fingers on the soft black velvet of the elf’s hood. 

The Silvanesti shook his head, his eyes resolute and unwavering. “No. I will not go back now.” 

“Dalamar!” Raistlin exclaimed, pulling on the hood and bringing their faces closer, their foreheads almost touching, breaths mingling. “You must live!” 

“I said no... “Dalamar said in an expressionless voice, stifling his emotions behind the blanket of frost he had learned to use so well over the years. “Now we are together, finally. For better or for worse.” 

“Do not be ridiculous!” said the other in a derogatory tone, without letting go. 

“I’m not joking. I need to be with you, to live every moment of life that remains to us.” The elf spoke in a softer tone but grabbed one of Raistlin’s wrists. “You can always send me back before you enter the Abyss. And if it doesn’t work then, I will have no regrets.” 

“No. I need to know you’re safe,” Raistlin said hoarsely, shaking his head and pulling free from his grasp. The elf, feeling the drain on his energy, let go. “You have centuries of life before you, unlike me, even if I do succeed in my mad plan. And I will not risk letting you get stuck in the past, alone!” he paced the room, then stopped in front of the elf once again, his eyes bright with determination. “But, Dalamar, I _will_ succeed! I will come back. And you must be there waiting for me.” 

Dalamar narrowed his eyes. “Raistlin. We have shared some hellish years. And I refuse to leave you now. If I become trapped in the past, and you succeed in exiting the Abyss in the present, then you can simply come back for me. Do you truly believe I could get up, say farewell and leave, go back to Wayreth or Palanthas, and pretend nothing happened? Just wait around to see if you’ll come back or not?” 

The shadow of a mocking smile appeared on Raistlin’s thin lips. “I would avoid Wayreth if I were you. At best, a trial awaits you, or more likely a fireball. You stabbed the head of the Conclave. Welcome to the League of Renegade Wizards.” 

“Exactly,” smirked Dalamar, one corner of his mouth curling.

“But you have the Tower of Palanthas.” 

“I do not _have_ the Tower of Palanthas.” the dark elf remarked curtly. “I remind you of the nature of the precarious position I held: currently, I would not even be able to return to that damned cemetery.” 

“That isn’t true,” Raistlin declared. “I would give you the necessary charm to enter the Grove and to take possession of everything. Stop for a moment,” he added, preventing the objection. “Reflect with me. No one can enter the Tower of Palanthas without my spell. Do you realize what that means?” 

“Your sister can come in,” Dalamar pointed out.

“I’d like to see her try! And don’t change the subject!” spat Raistlin.

The elf was silent for a few seconds while Raistlin straightened up, slipping his hands into the voluminous velvet sleeves. Then Dalamar spoke ina bitter tone: “All right, we have a Tower at our command - provided the Guardians cooperate, of course. We have a Tower full of ghosts, abominations, and curses, though it’s safe from the Conclave, at least... But why would I want to go back? Alone, waiting for who knows what, without knowing your destiny...” 

“May I remind you of the location of the only two Portals left in our time?” Raistlin interrupted in a dry voice. “Wayreth and Palanthas!”

They looked at each other intensely, then Dalamar nodded, the fight abandoning him. 

“I will need you to prepare for my return,” added Raistlin, drawing closer. “I cannot be completely certain what will happen after my entrance into the Abyss... if I will come out unharmed, or wounded, or dying. Or if I will be able to prevent Takhisis from following me. But one thing is certain: I will need an ally waiting for me on the other side.”

The elf understood that the matter was closed, crushed by the iron logic of the mage. “Two weeks,” he whispered, pleading. Their eyes locked. “With you.”

“One,” replied the other, narrowing his eyes and turning around. Raistlin reached one of the desks, where he caressed the pages of a large book that lay open alongside many others. 

The elf tightened his jaw and remained silent. 

“But we are planning without the key,” continued the human. With efficient gestures, he separated the books on the table into three ordered piles. Then he took one of the stacks to a bookcase and placed each book in its place. 

Unhurriedly, he returned to the table, bringing two more books and adding them to one of the piles. “I must ensure the collaboration of Lady Crysania, and we must act quickly, while she is still disoriented and without connections. In the meantime, of course, this entire dungeon is at your disposal. He finally turned to Dalamar and pointed to the desk.

“These are about time travel,” Raistlin said, pointing to some books. “And these concerns the Abyss and the Portal. Could you...” he hesitated. “Could you give them a look and tell me what you think? Two brains are better than one...”

Dalamar stood up and joined him. That little bit of uncertainty on Raistlin’s face was a precious and alluring sight. He drew close, then whispered in his ear: “Yes… _Shalafi!_ ”

Raistlin pulled back, a flicker of caution in his expression... but a heartbeat later, their thoughts were so easy to read that it took no effort to understand each other. The elf’s use of that word, _shalafi_ , had been an insult to the Monster during the two terrible years of Dalamar’s apprenticeship. And though the shadow of Fistandantilus was still looming on them both, the dark elf wanted to erase that old memory and replace it with a new one.

The Silvanesti leaned forward and captured Raistlin’s lips passionately, one hand behind the nape of his neck, holding him close. Raistlin kissed back fiercely. Dalamar shut his eyes and sank into his mouth, savoring the spicy taste of his tongue, then lowered his head and trailed his tongue along Raistlin’s jawbone.

They separated, panting, all too soon. Despite himself, Dalamar had to move away from Raistlin because the sense of vertigo had returned, and the wounds on his chest burned fiercely. He sat down at the desk to mask his weakness, pretending to leaf through books but seeing absolutely nothing. Behind him, he heard Raistlin cough nervously.

“In the other rooms, you will find Markhus, my current apprentice. Be kind to him; he’s dying,” the archmage said hoarsely. “He carries the curse of Fistandantilus too. I’m going to warn him you’re here, then I must go to the Temple of Paladine. I’ll stay away for a while.”

Dalamar raised his head, but Raistlin had already put on a hooded cloak and, Staff of Magius in his hand, was leaving without looking back. 

*** 

Dalamar wandered through the study. Most of the books chosen by Raistlin were written in mysterious languages. The archmage had not even realized it, so much was the knowledge he had acquired through Fistandantilus. The elf flipped through several books of spells: many were beyond his ability. Perhaps, with time... but time was precisely what they didn’t have.

Dalamar searched inside himself. The despair triggered by the problematic situation and all the new problems he was facing was mitigated by an incredible feeling of relief, a spark of joy. He had Raistlin again. _I should appreciate what I have, right? Count my blessings? Sweet Nuitari, what a sense of unreality._

They could not live as they wanted or go where or _when_ they wanted, not even touch or stay together as they once did... but they were together. Gods, they were together again. 

Dalamar did not want to go back to Palanthas. He wished to challenge fate, to convince Raistlin to abandon Crysania and this whole plan of crossing the Abyss. He would place that bet: flee with Raistlin to some remote corner of the Krynn of the past. _Let fate try to make Raistlin travel in time to the events of the Dwarven Gate War!_ _We could watch the Cataclysm fall on Ansalon, view the mountain of fire hit Istar while sitting on a cloud: probably the powers of Raistlin are terrific enough to allow such a thing._

Dalamar could not understand why Raistlin would not do precisely that. So, the “Laws of the River of Time” would force him to jump to the year of the Dwarfgate War, willing or not? Was it not Raistlin’s very belief in these laws that was leading him to his potential ruin? Raistlin argued that the mechanics of time travel had definite rules, and he wanted Dalamar to study them too. Fistandantilus was the Master of the Past and Present and certainly knew a lot about it. 

The real power of a wizard was in his knowledge. Resigned, Dalamar began to read.

***

Raistlin closed the door and quickly stepped away from it, refusing to allow himself even a moment of hesitation. Clenching his jaw, he reached the kitchen, where Markhus was eating a light breakfast. 

At his entrance, the young man stood up, startled, then bowed hastily. Raistlin was aware that, during the last month, the lad had been unnerved by what he must have perceived as bizarre behavior from his teacher, but the apprentice tried to keep up a facade of calm competence. His eyes darted for a moment to the Master’s hands, as if expecting to find them stained with blood. 

“I’m going out,” Raistlin said. He was quickly rearranging the thoughts that pressed against the invisible barrier of his control. “In my rooms, the wizard Dalamar the Dark is intent on studying. He is a confrere of the Black Robes and a longtime ally of mine. He has unfettered access to everything here. If he needs anything, you will serve him with the same regard you show to me. I advise you not to displease him.” 

Markhus widened his eyes. 

“Is that clear?” demanded Raistlin. 

“Yes, Master,” the apprentice jolted. “Naturally. As you command. Um, ah... I’ll be close by if Master Dalamar needs me.” 

The archmage nodded, whispered a word, and teleported away on the wings of magic. 

*** 

The shores of Lake Istar were very different from those of Crystalmir Lake, which Raistlin remembered from his youth. The great capital overlooked the vast body of water, encrusting it with piers, buildings, warehouses, merchant ships, and other signs of civilization. The few quiet and wild corners left were the gardens of the temples built on its shores. Ironically, it was in one of those that the Black Robe had found refuge. 

If any white-robed cleric had seen the black wizard in those gardens, he might’ve sounded the alarm. The dark robes, devoid of any symbol or rune, absorbed the light of the pleasant gardens and created a stark contrast against the landscape where the sun shimmered on the tranquil waters, but the mage wasn’t trying to hide. Or maybe, well imagining  _ who  _ the dark wizard could be, such a cleric would have kept to his own business. In any case, no one saw him: all the priests were inside the cool halls to celebrate mass, to preach, to bargain their interests, or to revel, depending on the type of cleric in question. 

Raistlin did not fully understand why he felt the need to sit on the shore... But he intended to unravel the tangle of his thoughts and his emotions before tackling anything else. 

_ Dalamar... here.  _

His mind needed to be clear. He went through the events and conversations of the last hours, drinking the exhilarating nectar of both his own newfound freedom and Dalamar’s regard and, perhaps, at least a little, his forgiveness. It was an invaluable treasure. But... he couldn’t forget all of the enormous, colossal difficulties still on his path.

A light breeze moved the branches of the trees, and the young wizard silently stared at the glow on the water for a long, long time. 

*** 

In the afternoon, Raistlin reached the main building of the Temple of Paladine and discovered that he had lost the opportunity to witness the ‘miracle’ of Crysania’s healing. Never mind, though, because, after some quiet inquiries, he soon found her in the chapel, where she was absorbed in prayer.

The other white-robed clerics vanished at the sight of the Dark One, without a cry of fear or a challenge at the invasion of their territory. No, nothing like that... it was just that everyone suddenly remembered commitments elsewhere. 

Hiding a mocking smile in the shadows of the hood, Raistlin approached his prey. 

But when he was near enough to see her delicate profile framed by gold earrings, and the pretty, exotic robes, he felt cold. 

Yes, Fistandantilus’s plan on how to coax Crysania was clear to him: but something inside Raistlin rebelled against it. 

Not because he was sorry for the woman - she was an arrogant simpleton and deserved the bad end she would get - but because the aforementioned plan required him to be particularly charming with her. Gentle. Mysterious. Almost seductive.

Worst of all, the wizard would have to engage in theological discussions wherein he must refrain from crushing her beliefs under the hammer of his iron logic, or from pointing out her stupidity. No, he had to let her speak, and limit himself to spinning her thoughts just enough to twist them against her, then lead her to believe only in him, trust only him. 

Basically, Raistlin possessed a daily plan, polished meticulously by the Lich, already set in his head. Since Fistandantilus did not feel real emotions but knew very well the soul and the workings of a human mind, he had carefully planned what to say and what not to say, and in what progression. 

Basically, Raistlin thought, neither more nor less than reciting a complex spell... A performance scheduled for days to come.  _ And I’m a great actor, right? Furthermore, the end largely justifies the means. And it makes my reticence irrelevant. Cleric, Portal, Abyss... and then my life with Dalamar. The succession is simple, and this meeting is just one of the most manageable steps. Only four weeks remain until the Cataclysm! I cannot hesitate now.  _

With his stomach knotted and his face set in a determined frown, the wizard strode toward the woman. 

***

During his first strange, incredible, and lonely afternoon in Fistandantilus’s lair, Dalamar began to suspect that the solution proposed by Raistlin was perhaps the only one available to them. Stubbornly, he continued to comb through the numerous books, but failed to come up with any new plan.

When Raistlin returned from whatever he had done in the Temple, they sat down together and discussed his plan once again. It was already a solid strategy, and the dark elf kept his doubts to himself.

Later, Dalamar asked for help to access certain books written in languages unknown to him, or the ones protected by spells - as in the case of Fistandantilus’s spellbooks. Raistlin gave him the magic key for those, and a pair of enchanted glasses to read the others.

That evening, in companionable silence, the two wizards sat fixated, body and soul focused on only their studies. For the time being, they put aside emotions and personal relationships, and the Art was the only protagonist of the night.

_Greenedera_

______________________

Next Chapter: Duet

PIc: from my [deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Raistlin-and-Dalamar-fireplace-860193646), "Raistlin and Dalamar - the fireplace"

Pic: from my [deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/gallery/65374033/raistlin-majere-dragonlance), "Raistlin - the Dark One contemplating Istar"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really "mean" to go on writing this fic, as you know, it was just something I was writing for myself. But the characters won't stop playing in my mind. And I couldn't stop writing. So, from now on starts the long journey home. I wanted to know what the two wizards would say to each other after such a long separation, and the characters themselves told me that first thing first, wizards need knowledge. So, even if not planned, they discussed their situation, their plans, their hopes.  
> \---  
> Thanks to @IsabelleM for the amazing beta of this chapter.
> 
> NOTE  
> I love bringing in the fic little elements of my life. So, when writing this chapter, I was spending some of my free time on the shore of a large lake near my home, which I imagined quite similar to what Istar Lake may have been. I’m talking about Garda Lake, in Italy, if you want to Google it.


	8. Duet

The library of the dungeon was vast and high-ceilinged, packed with priceless tomes, and was now heated by four magical braziers. Both wizards sat at a large table, studying books about time travel.

Raistlin found this moment strange and fascinating: domestic, already seen, already lived, yet incredibly precious and new. Despite his many worries and the various concerns on his mind, he sat back and gazed at the pale face of the elf, framed by dark, silky hair. The pattern drawn by his black eyebrows on his smooth forehead was charming, his eyelashes long and tantalizing. The bruises left by the guards were still too dark on his delicate skin, but he was nevertheless the most beautiful creature Raistlin had ever seen.

“Dalamar, I need to ask you something,” he said, and his voice was husky after the long hours spent in silence.

“By all means,” the elf answered, looking up from the book and gazing at him with wary curiosity in his silvery eyes. 

“Do you know how Par-Salian planned Crysania and Caramon’s return to the present?” 

Dalamar was silent for a few seconds, then his almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “No. And I must admit I never even thought about it,” he answered, sighing. “I had other things on my mind the evening I departed. Perhaps I assumed they were just doomed to die in the past, killed by Fistandantilus.” 

Raistlin returned to stare at a diagram on the page in front of him. “Instead, I thought a lot about it, just as Fistandantilus did before me. Crysania was planning to ask Par-Salian to be teleported to the past, so she would be able to “stop” the renegade wizard Raistlin Majere... or rather, to redeem him. Then the death knight commanded by my sister intervened, causing Par-Salian to teleport Crysania to the only age where someone could heal her since he’s a good white-robed fool. But we knew - the Lich knew - that Par-Salian hoped she would be taken away by the Night of Doom, the night when all the true clerics left Krynn thirteen days before the Cataclysm, or that she would die in the Cataclysm itself. Par-Salian wanted her death, even though he pretended to be saving her life... that idiot! If he just had the courage to take responsibility for his actions for once! Instead of helping with one hand and betraying with the other one... how much hypocrisy lurks beneath those white robes... “ 

Raistlin interrupted his tirade, shook his head, and resumed the interrupted thread. “Fistandantilus assumed they were sent back in time with no means to return home to their own.” 

He looked at Dalamar, who, after a few seconds of silence, and having nothing to add, shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have no idea. The Conclave told me nothing, dismissing me as the broken tool I was,” he said bitterly, glancing away and returning his attention to his book. 

Raistlin remained silent while he kept analyzing memories, images, and information. What if Par-Salian had handed Caramon a rare Device of Time Journeying? 

That would have been the key to reverse a time travel spell and return home; Raistlin, of course, would never have given such a powerful and precious object to an idiot like Caramon. 

But... it would have been the perfect solution to relieve Par-Salian from guilt. To send people on a suicide mission, but giving them a feeble hope to save themselves, already knowing that the odds would have been against them. The price would not have been too high.

He went back to reading the paragraph below the diagram, illustrating a scepter full of gems. 

_The Device is structured to work under particular conditions. One of these is that for every single person who will journey in time, the Master must provide a single Device, adjusted according to the scheme below which in the upper part repeats the astral configuration of the moons and the main constellations visible in the place of the launch of the spell at the exact moment of the conclusion of it and the bottom..._

Raistlin’s hand clenched into a fist. He had to talk to Caramon and discover more. Speaking of fools... Raistlin was still undecided about Tasslehoff’s fate. Useful? Needless? Dangerous? 

But could he ever leave a kender on the lam in the past? _Who knows how he could affect the future...?_ Killing him was the safest solution; nevertheless, Raistlin could not imagine himself assassinating Tasslehoff Burrfoot. 

_Leave him alive?_ What were the advantages? They certainly couldn’t bring the kender on such a delicate mission. _Let him die in the Cataclysm._ Perhaps locked up in a magical cage to be sure he wouldn’t flee? Maybe.

Dalamar claimed that they should make use of him... but how? If Tasslehoff had been a crowbar to undermine the passage of time from its current course and move it to a better one, Raistlin would have done it. Like a stone on a rail, to undermine the wheel of a wagon.

But they were talking about a kender. More likely to cause an explosion on the said rail. 

_If you are not useful, then you are useless, little friend. And if you’re in Istar, just a few weeks away from the Cataclysm, then you’re also dangerous._

What reaction would the disappearance of Tas have on Caramon? And eventually, if she discovered it, on Crysania? Not good... but manageable. _Of course, preventing the spread of the information would be even better._

Contemplating every move, every possibility, every chance, and its consequences, the wizard went back to reading. 

***

A few hours later, it was Dalamar who interrupted. He sat back, staring at his partner across the table, crammed with books. “Raistlin,” he began.

“Hm?” The other was so absorbed in comparing two large volumes that he answered rudely. 

“Earlier, I did not push this subject because there were other, more urgent matters, but there is one thing I cannot understand about the Portal.”

The intense eyes of Raistlin rose immediately from the text, studying the elf carefully. “I’m listening,” he said. 

“You told me that you plan to enter the Abyss through the Portal to exploit it to travel in space and time, and to do so, you would follow the scheme previously arranged by Fistandantilus to enter with Crysania.” Dalamar paused. 

“Exactly.” 

“Why not enter the Portal... now? Why must you travel to the future?” 

Raistlin shook his head, sighing. “I thought I already told you: the Portal would not open now. First of all, because the Gods have other things on their minds these days, and secondly because we are not living the story for the first time, so we - and especially I – aren’t beings endowed with complete free will. The first Fistandantilus had this privilege, and he blew himself up with Zhaman. The second Fistandantilus, the one reincarnated in me, was going to enter the Portal during those same events... Hence it follows that the Portal can open after or during the destruction of Zhaman. As specified by Astinius, that event is a milestone in history.”

“Yes, even I was able to gather that much, but…” Dalamar frowned. “In this book, the River of Time is described as a practically overwhelming force. Yet you hope to escape its laws in some way, to be able to change history. Fistandantilus the Lich hoped to do this himself, travelling back in time with his plan of becoming a God. Now, I have no idea of the specifics, but from what I’m reading here, it seems that what he planned to do was completely impossible.” 

Raistlin’s face was closed in a grim expression. “I agree.”

Dalamar blinked, confused, his jaw dropping for a moment. It was not the answer he expected. 

Raistlin rubbed his forehead with his thin fingers and leaned back in his chair. 

“If at this moment, I had to describe what I have in my head, I would use as a metaphor a chest full of shards, belonging to three vases. 

“One is the old Fistandantilus the Archmage, the first, the real Fistandantilus who lived his life for the first time... and whose original flow of Time was cut short a month ago."

“The second is Fistandantilus the Lich, the most aged one, the one that has already lived the entire life of the first, then died, spent several centuries as a spirit and then obscured my mind. And the third is me, Raistlin Majere, born in Solace and finished in this... mess.” The wizard leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepling his fingers before him."

“The first Fistandantilus was an old bastard of a genius, who lived his life with wit. As the Cataclysm approached - he had been warned by Takhisis herself - the wizard saw the opportunity to accomplish a plan he had been elaborating for about two thousand years. He knew of the existence of the Portals, naturally, as he knew that two of them had just been destroyed with the explosion of the Towers of Sorcery of Daltigoth and Losarcum in the recent Lost Battles.”

The young man clenched one fist, the veins and tendons showing on his pale skin. “He knew that the other three Portals had been locked down or located in remote corners of Krynn to protect them from the church’s potential hegemony. Quickly and inaccurately, he convinced the Revered Son of Paladine Denubis to follow him on a journey forward in Time, and then to the Abyss. However, having no time to track down the Portals, and with Denubis still not entirely convinced to follow him on his mad plan, he decided to leap forward in time to an epoch when there was no cleric on Krynn, and where the Queen of Darkness was distracted and vulnerable. He went to Palanthas, and from there, he planned his accession to power.”

Raistlin sat back, his voice low. “Fistandantilus had conquered Zhaman and made it his stronghold for several centuries, about a millennium before the Cataclysm. It seems he not only decided to take it back but to make it his headquarter too during those years after the Cataclysm. What do you understand from this?” he asked, coming out of his monologue. 

The sudden understanding struck Dalamar. “A Portal... in Zhaman?” 

“Possibly. I do not have a precise memory of this. Still, the deduction is particularly obvious, having this information in hand, and above all, the knowledge of the history of the Dwarfgate wars. Fistandantilus could not teleport to Zhaman and conquer it with the violence of magic because of the weakness caused by the recent Timespin Spell, and probably because of the power of the spells that protect all the Portals. So the archmage decided to take the fortress with the strength of his army. He won. He opened the Portal and died when the whole fortress exploded.” 

Dalamar sighed and stretched. “What happened?” 

“Here comes the amusing part,” Raistlin growled through clenched teeth, leaning forward, eyes glinting dangerously. “I do not remember.” He slammed one hand down on the arm of the chair. “Such an important piece of the puzzle and I do not _remember_ it. Every day I try to reach that memory, but everything is destroyed in fragments of pain linked to the death of the wizard. In the same way, I have extremely confused memories of what happened next.” 

Dalamar stared at him in silence, absorbed in his own particularly painful memories about ‘what happened next.’ Then he realised the other had resumed speaking.

“I know that Fistandantilus, though disembodied, survived, until he met me, Raistlin Majere. I know much of this because of what I discovered while I was a prisoner in my own mind... but the memories I inherited when I defeated him are deficient. I can remember very well everything about Crysania, about Fistandantilus’s plan to bring her to his side, because the Lich spent months perfecting it. But, for example, I do not remember how exactly Fistandantilus plotted to gather an army to invade Zhaman. I can assume he wanted to do it the same way as before, in his first timeline, but I’m not sure. And it is not a minor detail.” 

Dalamar shook his head slowly. “I agree; it isn’t. But... and what if the Portal is not in Zhaman? What if Fistandantilus decided to conquer the fortress for other purposes?” 

Raistlin answered with a tense, low voice. “This is one of the reasons why I will travel to Palanthas, too: to consult the Library – again – and discover the location of at least one of the surviving Portals. This must be one of the first things I do after the Timespin spell brings me there - after checking that the Portal is not in Palanthas, of course. But I have my doubts.” 

“Why don’t you go now?” 

“I’ve already been in Palanthas,” Raistlin growled, recalling the journey, gripping the arms of the chair tightly. “I was not allowed to know the answer to my question. This is _not_ the moment for Fistandantilus to discover the location of the Portal. Law of the River of Time. Law of Temporal Necessity” 

Dalamar blinked, at a loss for words. Then turned and stared at the burning coals of a brazier with a worried and absorbed expression. 

Raistlin went back to studying, tormented by the echo of the unexpressed words. 

They shared the same thought: _how much free will do we actually possess?_

***

In the following days, a new, renewed camaraderie quickly established itself. Dalamar slept in another room now, closer to Raistlin’s and better furnished than his previous one. Both wizards thought it wise to limit physical contact as much as possible to avoid activating Raistlin’s bloodstone and its life-drain spell. Besides the fact that there was some... embarrassment between them. 

On the one hand, their bodies recalled the old mutual physical attraction; on the other... it was difficult to forget two years of strong and violent repulsion. Their emotions and feelings yearned more for reunification than their bodies. Or behaviors. 

After two days of fruitless readings, Dalamar realized he would never be able to keep up with Raistlin on the issue of time travel. Instead, his eyes kept straying onto other books, other subjects. And onto other notes, from both Fistandantilus and Raistlin, notes about experiments on the life force of living beings. 

Eventually, the dark elf made his decision: he got up from his desk and strode toward the farthest and deepest room in the underground system. 

Dalamar entered the chamber dedicated to the magic rituals. Illuminated by the light of the Staff of Magius and other five witch-lights, the white dust that marked the outline of the magic circle of the Timespin Spell seemed to shine. Crouched next to it, Raistlin was drawing more runes, spreading fine dust with gentle, steady movements. 

The elf watched in silence, not daring to interrupt. 

“You will leave in two days.” Raistlin murmured without looking up. 

Dalamar did not answer right away. “I would like to discuss this further,” he finally said. 

“No.” The human intervened, standing up to contemplate the newly designed runes, still with his back turned. “We have already discussed it.” 

“Raistlin. I think I can counter the curse of the bloodstone.” 

Raistlin turned so quickly that the robes swayed around him and his hair slapped his face. His eyes nailed the elf under their intense mirror-like gaze. 

“It is evident,” continued Dalamar, “that time travel and extraplanar portals are not the kind of discipline I am best prepared or inclined to study. Even bypassing the linguistic problem, it seems that I will never be able to dominate those matters, and certainly not in such a short time.”

His companion continued to stare at him in silence, grim expression, eyes piercing. 

“Instead, necromancy is the Art I have always studied, and for which I have a knack. I have began to deepen my studies on the books of Fistandantilus, and I have found your notes about the bloodstone.” 

Raistlin didn’t even flinch. 

“Give me some time, and the chance to conduct some experiments, and...” 

“Have you lost your mind?” Raistlin interrupted him in a low, taut voice. “Must I remind you that you wear a mark of life-drain on your chest?”

Dalamar's temper flared up; his voice became sharp. “And I hope you can understand that it is precisely for this reason that I feel particularly motivated! You were _not_ able to free Markhus from the curse; on the contrary, you accelerated his decay. But I think I have guessed the way to counter the effects of the spell for him, and even for myself!”

Raistlin looked away, frowning and grabbing the Staff of Magius from his place against the wall. “It is too dangerous. Besides, _I_ am the bearer of the bloodstone: as soon as we get back to the present, _I_ will have to cast the spells necessary to lift the curse.” 

“Let me study these books...” 

“We will possess these books in our Time as well!” Raistlin exploded. “Do you remember? I had already found the right hiding place, but I retrieved them after I discovered I was stuck there. But before we leave again, we’ll put them back to safety. We will have them all.” 

“Markhus…” 

“We will go back in Time, and experiment with any other of Fistandantilus’s apprentices! He had hundreds of them...” Raistlin snapped hoarsely. 

“No! Damn it, listen to me,” interrupted Dalamar, losing patience as his voice became icy cold. “I do not want to go back to Palanthas just now, and I’m on the track of damn magic research of great importance! It is my first major research. Let me do it!” 

Raistlin narrowed his eyes, staring at him intently. 

The elf raised his chin. “I’m going to achieve something important. And the advantage that I gain will be useful to us both. So, I’ll stay.” 

“If we continue to postpone your departure, the Timespin Spell may not work...” 

“What does it matter!” Dalamar took a step closer. “Don’t you understand that I prefer to be here, to fight against fate by your side, rather than being sent home like a small child? Don’t you think I’ve already assessed the risks of this situation?” 

“I only want to save - at least - your life, Dalamar,” Raistlin interrupted in a whisper. “Is that so hard to understand?” 

Dalamar’s confidence wavered. He could read true love in Raistlin’s eyes, and he felt overwhelmed by it. He felt so lucky to deserve the love and the concern of someone so special. Unique. Raistlin’s thin face was beaming with sincerity and earnestness, a rare sight for everyone but Dalamar. But he wasn’t about to give up.

“It’s irrelevant what you want if you send me home with this curse etched on my chest,” answered the dark elf, steeling himself. “Don’t you think? Exactly like poor Markhus, I will die consumed by its magic, especially if you never come back!” 

Silence fell. Raistlin had closed his eyes, taking the blow. 

“I’ll give you another week,” the young man answered in a whisper, bowing his head. He turned, staring at the Timespin circle in silence.

Dalamar turned his heels and strode away before giving up and asking forgiveness for his harsh words. 

Hours later, Dalamar was bent over the night-blue books on the large marble table of the bigger of the two laboratories of the dungeon, when he heard Raistlin approaching with light steps and a rustling of robes. Without raising his head, the elf watched out of the corner of his eye as the black-robed figure, stopping in the doorway, regarded him in silence. After a few minutes, the human left without saying a word.

***

That night, Raistlin waited for Dalamar to go to sleep, then entered the empty laboratory. He closed the door and lit the room with the Staff of Magius, whose light did not seem to reflect on the blue covers of big night-blue spellbooks. 

One book was resting on the large table, and between the pages, there was a bundle of parchments written in the elegant calligraphy of the dark elf. With light fingers, the wizard opened the book and flipped through the pages, scrutinizing the notes. On the second page, he realized that he had just brushed a little magic interdiction, a low-level cantrip used by wizards to be notified when strangers touched something. Unconcerned, he ignored it and continued to read. 

Behind Raistlin the door opened and Dalamar leaned against the threshold, waiting. 

Several minutes later, Raistlin finished his reading and put the papers back.

“What do you think?” the dark elf asked, approaching. He stopped near the desk. 

Dryly, the young man replied with a grimace that could look like a smile: “It could work.” 

A pure smile of genuine satisfaction blossomed on Dalamar’s face. “Thank you... _Shalafi_ ,” he said wickedly. 

Raistlin’s lips creased in a slight smile, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “You are welcome, _Shalori._ ” 

Dalamar blinked at that epithet - it meant ‘beloved,’ in Silvanesti, in a form used between lovers - uncertain how to react. Then his smile broadened in joy. Sweet Nuitari, he loved it. 

Raistlin was like that: cold, controlled, impassive, uncaring. Then, suddenly - for the briefest moment - he could be the sweetest person in the world.

Raistlin gave him an enigmatic non-smile, then turned to the notes and pointed with his thin finger on a two-page alchemical formula. He began to think aloud about stocks and ingredients they would recover or buy. 

Dalamar put his amazement aside and sat down. He opened another notebook, and soon both were busy, discussing the elf’s ideas about the curse, and they went on talking till dawn.

_Greenedera_

______________________

Next Chapter: Black magic

Pic - "Studying - Raistlin and Dalamar" -from my[ Deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/gallery/65374033/raistlin-majere-dragonlance)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @IsabelleM for the amazing beta of this chapter.  
> Chapter published: 02/06/2020 - Updated: 09/11/2020


	9. Black magic

Dalamar spent all of his time studying. 

He made an exception every time Raistlin was back from his meetings with Crysania: the asinine chatter of the priestess about simplistic theology annoyed the archmage, who got visibly crabbier each time he met her. 

The elf would help him blow off the steam. Dalamar usually listened to Raistlin’s outbursts and tried to help him out of his bad mood. Sometimes he was able to distract his companion by discussing their plan, other times with anecdotes from the happy past together.

Now and then, the two ignored the curse to steal fleeting gestures of affection. It was difficult to restrain from touching: one morning, Dalamar entered Raistlin’s bedchamber while the human was shaving, and simply couldn’t resist the temptation to kiss Raistlin’s damp chin. One night the two entered the elf’s room, both intent on discussing a new “what if,” then Dalamar just disrobed with the nonchalance of someone doing that in front of a long-time partner. At the sight of the play of light and shadows on Dalamar’s shoulder blades, Raistlin was already caressing the elf’s smooth skin before realizing it. Raistlin was always the first to withdraw, extremely conscious of the danger he represented for his beloved.

Markhus was quite afraid of Dalamar, but he obeyed his orders with diligence. Bent on studying the curse on the apprentice, Dalamar had forced him to be examined several times. Only the spell that kept Markhus from leaving the dungeon prevented him from running away: obviously, he was more and more afraid they would kill him soon.

Everything was going according to the plan. It was three weeks away from the Cataclysm.

*** 

Dalamar entered the sunlit cloister shortly after midday. Most of the acolytes and priests had retired to the cooler halls, behind thick walls of white marble and granite.

In the center of the courtyard framed by columns stood a well. In the temples of earlier times, similar designs were intended for the meticulous cultivation of vegetable gardens and medicinal plants. But here Dalamar could see only short grass, grown just for pleasuring the eyes of the clerics. The lawn was emerald green despite the dry climate, thanks to the meticulous work of servants - or slaves, more likely. 

Some clerics were strolling, engaged in conversations. One woman sat on the low wall that surrounded the green lawn. Back straight, chin up, she stared at the granite well, lost in her thoughts with a faraway look on her pretty face. 

Dalamar approached, his white robes rustling. 

“Revered Daughter? May I disturb your meditation?” 

Crysania turned her head and regarded Dalamar without recognizing him: her eyes glazed briefly on the white and simple robes he was wearing, on the unadorned hood that covered his head and on his elven features. 

“Please tell Revered Son Quarath that I’m busy,” she said in an icy voice. “We can talk later, after the Vespers.” 

Dalamar tried to pay no heed to the string of contemptuous insults his subconscious was mumbling towards that insipid haughty noblewoman. How well he knew - and how much he despised - those like her. Like his masters in Silvanesti, years ago, she would not even consider those who did not have noble blood as real living beings, especially if they were just servants. 

“I’m sorry, Revered Daughter, but I’m not here on behalf of Revered Quarath. My master has sent me to tell you that there are answers to your questions, but that you refuse to listen to them.” 

She jerked her head back, an indignant frown on her face. “You dare...” She blinked, trailing off. “But... What are you talking about? Who is your master?” 

The elf, keeping his features impassive, bowed. 

“I’m sure it was not his intention to upset you, my lady. I beg you to pardon a poor messenger. He asked me to tell you only that these words were referring to your conversation yesterday morning, on top of the minaret.” 

Crysania blushed, then recognized him and widened her gray eyes in a very unladylike gesture. 

“But you are... his apprentice from Palanthas? How is it possible? Dalinar?”

“Dalamar, my lady, at your service,” he reminded her, holding back the annoyance. “My master brought me with him on this journey, so I could assist him.” 

“Oh... right. It’s true, of course, Raistlin would need someone to take care of him,” she answered, her gaze dreamy. “He’s so fragile. As if it’s just his willpower to hold him together.” 

_Here she is, the haughty priestess, who fell in love!_ The elf shifted, waking her up from the daydream – little doubt about who she was dreaming about. 

She blinked. “But... Raistlin told me he traveled to the past to defeat that black-robed wizard... Were you with him from the beginning? In Palanthas, he let me assume he would leave on his own.” 

“I’m just his humble apprentice, Revered Daughter,” Dalamar murmured modestly. “My master brought me here but faced the black-robed wizard alone. When facing such a powerful enemy, being with me or alone is the same thing, unfortunately.” 

“Oh. I suppose an apprentice has a long way to go to match such a master,” she commented, tilting her head. 

Was she enjoying his inferiority? Did she hope this way to prove to herself that she alone was worthy of the attention of Raistlin? 

“Indeed,” Dalamar murmured. “But I am happy to serve, even as a messenger if necessary, or as a servant.” 

“Where is he now?”

“He awaits you in his rooms, which are in a seldom-used residential wing of the Temple of Paladine. They are difficult to find at first, so he sent me to guide you.” 

“Raistlin has rooms... here in the Temple?”

“The deceased and not lamented sorcerer Fistandantilus had a rather large apartment and lived here on a permanent basis. I do not know why, but I am sure that my master will be happy to answer all your questions.” 

“Oh, that makes sense! The most powerful sorcerer of this age lived here in the Temple, under the strict control of the Kingpriest.” she realized, her eyes wide. “And you said Raistlin is waiting for me there? Why didn’t he come to me in person?” 

“I do not know, my lady. I suppose,” added Dalamar, pulling out his best charming smile, “that he wants to talk to you in private,” he whispered.

The woman blushed and said nothing.

She stood up, making a big show of adjusting the folds of her robes. In the meantime, the elf was waiting with apparent calm, though inside, he was seething. How much he despised her. 

Finally, they set off, leaving the most modern and frequented area of the complex, heading towards the south wing - perpetually in the shade by the high central dome of the building and, therefore, less appreciated by most of the guests. They made several turns, delving deeper into a nearly deserted and neglected area. The marble corridors had dirt in the corners, the gardens in the different cloisters they crossed were overrun with dry weeds. 

“Raistlin, though he pretends to be that other old wizard, at least has the integrity and honesty to continue wearing his black robes, careless of danger but deeply honest with himself. The fact that you have chosen to disguise yourself as an acolyte of Paladine is it not an insult to my order, or yours? “Asked the priestess in a pedantic tone, staring at the pavement before her while walking at a measured pace. 

_How amusing that you are saying those words! A cleric of Paladine who has – who thinks she has - an affair with a black wizard, and who is now speaking almost friendly to a dark elf! Stupid woman. Blasted hypocrite! Self-righteous bitch!_

“I’m afraid this deception is the only way for me,” Dalamar answered in a modest tone, biting back a smirk. “I am not as powerful as my master to deserve the respect of the people here at the Temple.” _Besides the fact that in the corrupt city of Istar, there is only_ one _black wizard who has free access to this temple, with the connivance of the King-Priest... would you instead prefer I attire myself in black and attract the guards? Or that I dressed up as a servant? A janitor? Anything else, just please, don’t sully these sacred white robes!_

Dalamar silenced his polemical thoughts. 

“I guess ...” the priestess began, before interrupting herself. “So, your master does not share his plans with you.”

“No, my lady” answered Dalamar while they walked, playing his part. “One day I hope to be able to move so far into my apprenticeship that I deserve so much confidence on my part. For now, I would like to follow him and learn.” 

“Even on such a dangerous journey, back in time?” 

“An occasion that happens just once in life.” 

She brooded a few seconds. “A life that will last much longer than his,” she said with regret. 

“This is how the world goes,” the elf answered stiffly. “I just hope in this short time that we will spend together, I’ll be able to learn a small part of his knowledge, as long as I do not fail first.”

In truth, new questions peeked up inside him. How would the bloodstone change Raistlin's life or their relationship? Would Raistlin keep possession of that artifact at the end of his journey through the Abyss? Otherwise, could he forge another one, when he resurfaced in Palanthas? Would he be able to transcend the short life of a human? But above all, would he be able to pay the price necessary to use it – by murdering other wizards? 

Raistlin, deep inside, was still fundamentally good. A unique kind of goodness, unclassifiable within the rigid divisions of White, Red, and Black: more a desire for what was right. And by this moral law that was forever etched into his soul, it would have been “right” to kill other living beings to prolong his own life? 

Would Raistlin become a true necromancer, for Dalamar’s sake? 

The elf put these speculations aside to reconsider them at a more convenient time. Next to him, the priestess seemed immersed in her thoughts as well. 

*** 

Raistlin sensed Crysania and Dalamar approaching. He sat at the desk in Fistandantilus’s representative apartment, reading his spellbook. He slipped it into a bag when Dalamar’s brilliant and saturnine mind brushed against his, transmitting his dialogues with the Revered Daughter and her reactions, holding back in a commendable way from enunciating his contempt for the woman. 

The door opened itself in front of the priestess, who flinched as if she had never seen such a simple spell. 

“Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said, standing up and approaching with a respectful bow. He turned to Dalamar and, imitating what Crysania had witnessed in Palanthas when the Lich addressed the elf, said: “Apprentice. Leave.” 

The elf gave him a bow. “Yes ... _shalafi,_ ” he said quietly, dragging the word ‘ _shalafi_ ’ in such a sensual tone it sent an electric jolt running down Raistlin’s spine. He felt his cheeks flare with heat.

 _Get out, before I teleport this woman into a pond, and I jump you_ , Raistlin snapped silently, casting him a peevish look. 

The impassive, handsome face of the dark elf was perfectly controlled. _I’m just trying to get you into the best mood for this meeting. Your eyes have become so ravenous that Crysania is already blushing._

As Dalamar turned his heels and walked away, Raistlin refocused his attention on the priestess. He was already staring in her direction, and she had remained petrified in the doorway, utterly fascinated. 

He gave Crysania his best charming smile. 

“Revered Daughter,” he repeated, wrapping a hand around Crysania’s upper arm, gently pulling her along. 

“I hope you do not mind too much that I sent my apprentice to summon you.” 

“Why did you send him?” she asked with a thin voice. She was mesmerized and not paying attention to their topic of conversation. 

“I preferred to limit the number of times I come to disturb you publicly, so as not to attract unwanted attention on you from the Revered Son Quarath.” 

“I... oh, thank you,” she answered, coming in and looking around the room. “How kind of you. Actually, this morning, he was particularly pressing about the strange circumstances of my arrival in Istar.” 

“I understand. Here in the Temple, those like him can hardly accept the presence of hearts as pure as yours: deceitful people would look for more deceit, even where there is none.” 

“You are right.” She sat on one of the armchairs of the lavish sitting room and carefully smoothed the folds of her robes. Her lips curled in disdain. “However, he did not even notice that a dark elf wanders in false guise around the Temple of Paladine,” she remarked. 

“True. Dalamar does not show up very often, though,” he said, eyebrows arching over his eyes with the hint of a frown. 

“Did you have to bring him here?” she asked, leaning back against her seat and fidgeting with one of her bracelets. 

“He is very useful for me. As you know, my health is fragile, and those like me often do not get the help of anyone who is not obliged to do so by the invisible chains of duty, personal interest, and profession.” 

She blushed. “You know I’d help you more than willingly.” 

“I would not want to be a burden on you, Crysania,” he whispered, wondering how he was going to bear two more hours of silly talk like that. 

*** 

Dalamar was studying in the underground library when Raistlin returned. 

Just from the pace of his step, the elf realized his partner was angry: Raistlin went straight to the library and entered without ceremony, leaving the Staff of Magius against a bookshelf and undoing the strings of his cloak with angry gestures. 

“Have you lost your mind?” He exclaimed hoarsely. “You have to be much nicer and obliging than that, with her!” 

Dalamar looked at him defiantly, then smiled slyly. “She’s too stupid to realize she was being insulted.” 

“You try my patience. You know I will not take risks,” Raistlin whispered angrily, grinding his teeth. “We need her.” 

Dalamar snapped his book close and made a dismissive gesture. “All right.” 

“No, it’s not ‘all right’!” the other exclaimed, leaning with both hands on the desk. “We have orchestrated your meeting so that she may get used to the idea of your presence! It’s not a competition between the two of you! It’s our strategy!” 

Dalamar leaned back against the back of the chair and sighed. “I told you, I get it. And I promise that I will carefully stick to our plans next time.” 

Thin smoke and an acrid smell of burnt wood began to rise from Raistlin’s palms - or rather, from the wood beneath them. 

“Swear it!” Raistlin commanded with fiery eyes. 

Dalamar put his fingers on the back of those thin and delicate hands, looking in Raistlin’s eyes, at the love and worry hidden behind the veil of anger. He gently caressed his knuckles. 

“I swear, by Nuitari.” 

Raistlin drew back, grabbed the Staff, and walked to the door. “Then prepare yourself. In the next few days, you’ll have much more complex tasks,” he said, then picked up a book from the shelf and stormed off, closing the door behind him. 

Dalamar listened to the fading sound of his footsteps, then opened the book in front of him to the page he was reading before Raistlin entered. 

He stroked the gothic letters of the title: “Lifelink.”

*** 

A few days later, Raistlin returned from the umpteenth meeting with Crysania. He was tired, disgusted by her stupidity, and angry with himself for being struck into a situation where he needed her. 

Entering the dungeon, he realized he could not perceive either Markhus or Dalamar and stopped. Immediately he extended his magical senses and found a shielding spell of the kind usually conjured when performing rituals of a certain caliber. He hurried to the biggest laboratory, which was rapidly becoming the exclusive domain of his ‘apprentice.’ 

The door was open but, on the floor of the lab, four protective circles had been drawn with black powder, each larger than the previous one and thickly covered with runes, circling the working table. The motionless figure of Markhus laid on its surface. The chest of the young man barely rose, the black mark of the Lich’s curse extended from the neck to the navel. Another person was lying next to him: a man the same age, a Nordmaar, judging from his features and brown skin color. 

Raistlin stopped some distance from the outer circle and turned off the light of his Staff. His eyes fixed on Dalamar, who wore a stiff sleeveless tunic over his black robes, one that Raistlin had never seen before. On it, dozens of protective runes had been carefully painted: powerful, high-level runes copied from one of Fistandantilus’s books. 

The elf was murmuring a chant, his slanted eyes closed and his handsome face focused. The ecstasy of the Art made his face even more striking. Raistlin narrowed his eyes and concentrated on studying the magical energies in motion and the transmigration of vital energies between the two humans on the table. 

Between one stage and another of the elaborate ritual, Dalamar peeked at Raistlin, acknowledging his presence but not interrupting his chanting. 

Suddenly, the flesh of the Nordmaar collapsed: in a matter of seconds, the meat was eaten from the inside, the blood vessels blackened. 

Markhus gasped without waking up, and the black marks on his chest faded until only five black spots remained on his throat, where Fistantantilius’s fingertips had first touched him. 

The voice of Dalamar, who had continued to murmur arcane words in a steady tone, stopped: a barely visible ripple crossed the air around him, and the tension in the air dissipated. 

The elf stepped back, panting, and leaned against a bookcase, exhausted and barely able to stand. 

Raistlin instinctively took a step, then remembered the circle. He looked down, then again at Dalamar. The elf gave a weary nod, so Raistlin stepped over the barrier and quickly joined him. 

The archmage put his arm under the shoulders of the other and helped him reach a chair. With two short words, the fire in the hearth began to roar, driving away the arcane chill that now permeated the room. 

“You were supposed to wait for me for this kind of thing!” Raistlin hissed angrily, while they were moving toward the hearth. 

“So we could quarrel again? No, thank you,” the elf answered with colorless lips, sitting down and brushing his hair from his sweaty forehead. “As you can see, everything is under control.” 

“This ritual was powerful, Dalamar. It was almost too much for you at your current level. If you had lost control...” 

“I know I’m not as powerful as you,” the elf said in a bitter and annoyed tone, glaring at the human with his cold, grey eyes. “No need to remind me. But I know my limits: it worked, right?” 

Raistlin scowled but refrained from lashing back. They sat there, looking at the bodies on the table. 

After a few minutes, Dalamar got up wearily and went to check on them. Only a grotesque, dry shell remained of the Nordmaar; Markhus, though still unconscious, had evidently benefited from the spell instead. He looked healthy and rested. 

“Did you feel anything through the bloodstone?” the elf asked in a detached tone while he magically controlled the two test subjects.

“No, nothing,” replied Raistlin. After a pause, he added: “That tunic. You prepared it during these last days.” 

“Yes, of course,” Dalamar murmured, concentrating his magic on the black marks on Markhus’s neck. 

“You should have embroidered those runes of warding, not just painted them. Look at yourself.” Raistlin commented curtly. 

Dalamar inspected the warded fabric of the tunic: in the light of the fire and candles in the room, the painted runes were covered with cracks, as if they were about to peel off. 

The elf shrugged, “It’s true. But I did not have the time. Someone insisted that today would be my last day here in Istar,” he answered with a baleful glare. 

Raistlin felt the fury mount in his chest and clenched his hands into fists. Again, he refrained from lashing out, merely shooting the elf a grim glance. Dalamar faced him in silence, his slanted eyes cold and challenging. 

“I should send you back immediately,” the archmage mumbled. 

“But you won’t,” Dalamar whispered boldly, approaching with measured steps. The pride in the elf’s eyes grew fiercer. “ _Shalafi_ ,” he added. “The Dark One has never had a better apprentice than me, who could carry a ritual of this level successfully. Admit it! I can master his necromancy spells better than anyone!” 

Raistlin licked his lips. “You’re playing with fire.” 

“May it consume me, then.” Dalamar raised a hand on Raistlin’s chest, hovering over the bloodstone, but not touching it. “But not before I’ve stolen all its secrets.” 

Raistlin grabbed Dalamar’s hand, squeezing it tightly and staring at him with a flat, expressionless gaze. The elf narrowed his eyes, returning the challenge defiantly. 

A few seconds passed in utter stillness, then all the runes painted on Dalamar’s tunic exploded in a silent cloud of silver dust. Raistlin released the hand with a triumphant look. 

Dalamar straightened, sighing and looking at the result with a regretful smile. 

“Very well, you proved your point. Do we have needle and thread?” 

*** 

A short while later, Raistlin sat in front of the fire, and he was personally starting the embroidery of the new runes of protection on the overcoat tunic. He was murmuring arcane words under his breath to activate each symbol. Hearing only his tone of voice, someone could have mistaken them for swearing. 

Dalamar affectionately smiled as he listened to Raistlin’s voice. He covered Markhus with a blanket and woke him by whispering a counterspell. The young apprentice’s eyes opened. He drew a deep, gasping breath, and stared at Dalamar in horror, realizing who he was with, where, and in what state. 

“Do not be afraid,” Dalamar reassured him in a clear tone. “I did not hurt you. Quite the contrary. Tell me how you feel.” 

It took a while for Markhus to recover his wits enough to describe his state of health. “The...” he whispered eventually, “The pain in my chest is gone. I feel as if I had slept really well and...” he let out an exclamation of amazement when he noticed the corpse at his side. He looked back at Dalamar, peered at the bowed figure of Raistlin, and remained silent. 

Dalamar repressed a smile. “Yes, you are welcome. Now, I want you to retire in your room, and write a detailed report about the perceptible changes in your body, by the eighth hour. Fill at least two sheets. Go.” 

Markhus moved quickly, clutching the blanket to himself. His expression upset, he climbed down from the stone table and hurried to the door. Despite the embarrassment and the prolonged immobility, the young man moved quickly and without stumbling. 

As the door closed behind him, Dalamar gave Raistlin a smile of triumph. The other shook his head and went back to his work, his lips pursed in a smile. 

The elf began to tidy up and clean the room. He cast the appropriate spells before sweeping the dust of the magic circle and collected it an urn he would empty into the lake. He covered the corpse - which would meet the same end - and put the components he had not used back into order. 

“So... I suppose you expect me to cast the same spell on you,” Raistlin murmured after a few minutes of silence, during which he had continued to sew silvery runes. 

Dalamar sat next to him, tired but satisfied. 

“Yes. I predict that the next victim will arrive tomorrow night. You know, I must admit that your new contact at the prison seems to know his job. And he is certainly terrified at the prospect of making the same end as his colleagues.” 

Raistlin nodded. “Did you pretend to be Fistandantilus?” 

“Obviously.” 

“You could have warned me!” 

Drawing near him, Dalamar reached out and took hold of Raistlin’s wrist. The human flinched and immediately tried to break free of his grasp, but the elf’s grip was firm. Their eyes locked, and Dalamar smiled. 

“And miss the fun? Do you have any idea what an expression you have on your face right now?” said the elf mischievously, releasing him. For Dalamar, the annoyance at having been outmatched that he could read in his companion’s face was the most precious and cute expression ever. The elf’s smile both broadened and darkened. 

“You disapprove, don’t you?” he asked, changing the subject when Raistlin didn’t answer and the silence lengthened. “The sacrifice, the victims.” 

Raistlin snorted. “It’s irrelevant, Dalamar. If it’s to save your life, you know I’m ready to sacrifice all the young men of Istar, and of the rest of Krynn, for all I care about them. It is not a method that I “like,” but having tested its effectiveness, it does not make sense to debate its ethics. We’ll just do it.” 

Dalamar nodded. They remained silent for a few minutes longer while one rested, and the other sewed runes. 

“However, from what I was able to perceive from Markhus before he woke up,” remarked Raistlin, “his curse has not yet been lifted.” 

“No. But we gave him more time. I slowed its effects,” answered the elf, propping his head with his hand. 

“Nonsense!” scoffed the human. “Markhus has passively leeched someone else's lifeforce, restoring his own and healing his body! It is not the same thing at all!” 

“I bought him more time,” Dalamar repeated. “And I will get the same benefit as well. But it’s not over yet. I have another experiment in mind after we try this spell on me too. For the next step, I must gather much more life force than I have now.” 

Raistlin regarded him in silence, worried and severe. 

“Yes, I’ll warn you before trying anything, next time,” Dalamar added. 

Raistlin looked down at the tunic and continued to sew in silence. Then he shook his head. 

“All right. Tell me more about the spell you cast tonight. Start by describing the process. I suppose I will cast it as soon as the next test subject comes here.” 

As they lapsed into silence, they shared the same thought: _Because there will be the next time. Tomorrow would have been the seventh day... and no one will return to the Palanthas of the Future anytime soon._

_Greenedera_

_______________________

Next Chapter: Dark plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry.  
> Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta of this chapter.  
> \---  
> NOTE ABOUT "THE MUSICAL" - while writing this fic I was listening like crazy "The Last Trial", and some lines of the English adaptation worked their way in the text. Quotes and credits are annotated in a separate Work on my profile.


	10. Dark plans

A ripple passed through the air, and silence fell in the laboratory. Raistlin felt his energies draining and he staggered, leaning his elbows on the stone table. He never took his eyes off Dalamar, though. His hands felt cold, and a metallic taste lingered on his tongue. His heart was beating rapidly, the blood surging through his veins, throbbing in his temples. His throat ached from the magical words he had just spoken. 

The dark elf lay on the stone slab, his eyes closed, his handsome face motionless. On his chest, the five cursed wounds had become dark scabs, but no other changes were visible. Then again, Dalamar had carried the curse of Fistandantilus for much less time than Markhus, on whom the healing had been more evident. 

Next to Dalamar, a golden-haired elf had become a pitiful remnant, looking more like a dead bird than a Qualinesti.

Raistlin, ignoring the wave of exhaustion passing over him, checked the runes embroidered on his sleeveless tunic for the hundredth time. Their metallic surface reflected the light in the room. They were intact, except some that had slightly worn out. The bloodstone, tucked safely underneath the fabric, had shown no signs of activity, and Raistlin sensed no incoming vital energy. 

As soon as he felt ready, he spoke the counter-spell. Dalamar’s eyelids fluttered. He roused briefly, stared around with unfocused eyes, muttered something unintelligible and sank back into unconsciousness. 

“Dalamar!” the mage exclaimed, worry evident in his tone. 

This time his eyes fully opened. He looked around for a moment with a bewildered expression and tried to sit up. 

Raistlin rushed to assist his lover, then stood still in case his actions would frighten the dark elf even more. He felt an overwhelming wave of relief rush through his limbs as realization set in: Dalamar not only was alive, but safe and sound, too. 

Dalamar sat up, and after taking in his nakedness, the dried-up corpse at his side and the wizard dressed in black standing near him seemed to come back to his senses. He sighed, as trying to calm down. He looked at his chest, lightly stroking the finally closed wounds in amazement; then he glanced at Raistlin with the shadow of a smile. “You did it!” he whispered.

Repressing a sigh, Raistlin hugged him gently, then helped him to sit with his legs off the table and handed him the heavy robe he had prepared at hand. “We did it. Here, take this.” He felt so exhausted – more for his fear of killing Dalamar, rather than for the level of the spell, which was well within his capabilities.

Rather than take his robe, Dalamar smiled, - a dark, smug smile - grabbed the collar of Raistlin’s tunic and dragged him closer to kiss him eagerly.

Raistlin froze for a moment, savoring the contact of those hungry lips, the invasion of the daring tongue. Then caution prevailed and he freed himself, draping the velvet robe over the elf’s shoulders. 

But Dalamar didn’t give up and, with a happy hum, he drew Raistlin once more, pressing their bodies together and clasping his hands around the other’s hips. Again he tried to kiss Raistlin, but the man withdrew his head. The elf’s undressed body was fresh and lean, hard as stone.

“Dalamar, damn it,” Raistlin protested hoarsely, grabbing the elf’s hands and trying to free himself from their grip. “It is already so complicated, even without you trying to...” 

Dalamar adjusted his hold with one hand, the other fumbling with the ties of Raistlin’s robes, his eyes sparkling like stars with happiness. “Don’t you understand?” he breathed, trying to nip at the other’s neck. “We can. I have earned these moments for us! The bloodstone won’t try to suck another life when it’s satiated...” 

“No,” retorted the wizard with a hoarse voice, shaking his head and arching backward, out of reach. “We didn’t kill a person to steal a moment of passion! It would be a waste of life. We did it for your health. It doesn’t make sense that we find ourselves having to kill another one tomorrow, just to... “ 

Dalamar released him abruptly. “So now you are having doubts about this?” he gestured, annoyed. “May I remind you that all the inhabitants of Istar will die within twenty days? Why are we even talking about this? Of course, we can ‘ _waste_ ’ some lives!” 

Raistlin straightened, his face an expressionless mask. He wanted to throw himself into Dalamar’s arms... so why wasn’t he? 

The elf sighed, resigned, then finally covered himself with the robe and got off the table in one fluid motion. “All right. But have you noticed that so far, the bloodstone has not yet tried to leech any kind of vital energy from me? The warding of the ritual held,” he pointed out. 

Then Raistlin felt Dalamar’s hand close over his gloved one. Angrily, he tried to shake off his lover’s grasp, but the elf’s grip was firm. 

“It did. But some runes are already worn out, look,” Raistlin said irritated, turning his hand and showing where the silver thread had broken. “We cannot be careless with what we are doing. You know I won’t risk your life.” He meant it to sound put-upon, maybe even angry, but he couldn’t hide his relief. The experiment had been successful indeed.

The Silvanesti, holding his gaze, brought the human’s gloved hand to his lips and kissed its back, then bit the knuckles. 

“Dalamar!” admonished Raistlin, staring at him with fiery eyes. 

The dark elf released the hand smiling mischievously, then straightened up, lively looking around. 

“Go sit down. I’ll take care of tidying up here.” 

Raistlin, shaking his head, retrieved the Staff of Magius and collapsed onto the padded armchair in front of the fire. 

Behind him, Dalamar began to clean the lab while humming an elven tune. 

***

Solinari’s silvery light illuminated the sky. Even though it was nearly midnight, the heat was so torrid that even the cicadas no longer sang. 

Crysania watched the rooftops of Istar through a large crystal window. Her clothes were brightened by the soft light that came from outside. Given the late hour, there was no one around.

As Dalamar approached silently behind her, he could read her thoughts easily. They mainly revolved around theological dilemmas, the good and evil, the world order and her role in it, but also her obsessive attraction for Raistlin.

Fistandantilus had carefully planned every move necessary to make Crysania into a puppet, predicting her every reaction for months in advance, and had done it well. The son of a bitch had been the most despicable creature that ever had existed, but he had to be given credit for his talent in manipulating people. 

It had become tough for Raistlin to endure Crysania’s company these days: she strained his patience, and there were times when just a thin veil of courtesy and mystery barely hid his dislike for the woman. Fortunately, until now, the actions foreseen in the plan had been... manageable. But this evening they needed to do more.

After Raistlin had expressed his reluctance to proceed with what Fistandantilus had planned and even went so far as to theorize an alternative course of action, Dalamar had offered to take care of the matter on his behalf. 

The dark elf did not want to deviate from the careful planning of the Lich, because it would be dangerous; at the same time, he could not bear the thought that Raistlin would romance the woman, almost seducing her. 

No. They needed Crysania alive; it would not have been wise to provoke Dalamar’s murderous instincts even further. 

Wearing an illusion spell specifically prepared by Raistlin and wrapped in the shadows of the corridor, which made it even more difficult to distinguish fantasy from reality, the wizard came up behind the priestess. She smelled of soap and lavender; the beautiful dark hair fell down her back in thick gentle waves. The wizard’s lips curved in a mocking smile. 

“Revered Daughter,” he whispered, imitating Raistlin’s voice. “When the Moon rises, when your God falls asleep, I know that you can hear me…”

He traced a thumb along Crysania’s lips, which parted slightly at the wizard’s touch. She stiffened, inhaling abruptly, while he pressed his chest against her back, one hand stroking her proud chin and the other lightly caressing her side. The burning heat of the magic surrounding him to imitate Raistlin’s, made the woman’s skin feel even colder in comparison. Despite the summer heat, it was like caressing a marble statue. Was this how Raistlin perceived everyone? Was this how even Dalamar felt to him? Did everything feel so cold and foreign? 

“Go away, please,” she whispered, breathing hard, her voice coming out a bit strangled.

The mage breathed sensually on her neck, brushing the soft skin with his lips. Crysania was helpless, terrified, yet at the same time burning with desire. Just as expected. 

Dalamar scrutinized the carnal whirlwind of her thoughts, caressing her side again. She leaned in his touch.

As soon as he anticipated her decision to yield herself in his arms, he turned his back on her and dramatically left. Behind him, he could hear her heavy breathing in the echoing corridor. 

Then his sensitive elven hearing picked up her murmured words: “Oh, Paladine, thank you! I won’t fail!” 

Dalamar barely swallowed a chuckle. Really? She thanks Paladine for something he had nothing to do with? How could she be more foolish than that? 

He returned to Fistandantilus’s apartment in the south wing of the Temple. As he opened its door, he found that several objects had been thrown to the floor and shattered there. He stopped in the doorway to take in the mess, then quickly entered the sitting room and closed the door behind him. 

Raistlin stepped out of the bedroom, his hair disheveled, his eyes burning with anger. 

“So?” he snapped. 

Dalamar shrugged nonchalantly. “Done. The love-stricken priestess is wrapped around my finger.”

Raistlin approached until their faces were close, their breaths mingling, his intoxicating smell of herbs filling the elf’s nostrils. The wizard’s eyes were two dark pits in which Dalamar could glimpse many whirling emotions.

“Did you have fun?” Raistlin rasped. 

Seeing the dangerous spark in Raistlin’s eyes, Dalamar stilled, pondering his answer cautiously.

“I found it ridiculous - and therefore amusing - that a cleric of Paladine had such an immature reaction,” Dalamar smirked offhandedly, raising an eyebrow at him. “I did what I had to do, nothing more.” 

Then a mischievous smile curled Dalamar’s lips. “You know, I like that you’re jealous,” he added innocently, a trace of humor in his gaze. 

Raistlin narrowed his eyes and jerked away, kicking a brass vase lying on the floor. 

“Go take a bath,” he snarled in a disgusted voice. 

*** 

A few days later, Dalamar sat at the table of “his” laboratory. He had been in Istar for weeks and frantically studying during the whole time. 

Raistlin had moved his books to the smaller study, although he had read and reread them all and knew its contents by heart: Abyss, time travel. Time travel, Abyss. 

Dalamar placed the still on the table, where a sophisticated controlled system of delicate crystal tubes transferred liquids, powders, and gases between two containers. While following the precise steps for this ritual, he couldn’t stop thinking and rethinking their situation. As much as Raistlin studied and tried to delve into the Lich memory, there was too much information missing. On this, the two wizards agreed - especially on the historical events surrounding the fortress of Zhaman. The memories of Fistandantilus were confused: in fact, they did not come from the body that Raistlin now lived in, but from the mind that had obscured the young man for seven years, a conscience now reduced to disordered shreds. 

Although Raistlin didn’t have all the information he needed, he would enter the damn Abyss itself anyway. Dalamar’s guts twisted, just thinking he could not help him in any way. 

His jaw tightened with determination. But he could unravel the mysteries of the bloodstone and solve one of Raistlin’s other problems, for when they returned to the Palanthas of their time again. If they would return to Palanthas. If Raistlin would have emerged victorious from the Abyss. If Dalamar would be able to return to his Time with Raistlin’s Timespin spell...

He cleared his mind of those thoughts; he had already mulled over them too many times. Cautiously, he added the last few components to the lead cauldron on a flameless brazier in front of him. Dalamar took a deep breath. 

He had promised Raistlin to wait for him and to warn him before doing something foolhardy. But he would have opposed this... and they did not have enough time as it was: the Cataclysm loomed, and events could precipitate at any moment. 

What would have become of Raistlin if Dalamar had died that day? Would he have completed his journey anyway? Would he have built a new life? Or... would he have stopped trying? 

The elf shook his head in irritation. What I do, I do for me, for him, for us. 

He took a knife with a sharp blade and placed it on the table. He cast a spell - a new one, learned from the Lich’s spellbooks - to lock the door and protect the room from teleportation spells. Then he set the book with the ritual formula on a near wooden stand. He bared his left arm and began to murmur the complex syllables of the spell. 

Every word was ungodly, deeply unjust, evil, and cruel, but the dark elf did not hesitate a single moment; the time for doubts was over. His voice rose as the climax of the ritual approached. 

A blue fire broke out in the brazier, consuming the powders and essences that the wizard had poured into it. The opaque liquid in the cauldron above began to lazily move until it swirled as if driven by an invisible current. The air in the room chilled suddenly, causing the sorcerer’s bare skin to erupt into goosebumps. As he screamed the last words, he grabbed the dagger and pierced the flesh of his left armpit and bent forward to let his blood flow freely into the cauldron. When the amount of blood spilled was sufficient, the wizard straightened up, sticking a clean rag under his arm as it was not the type of wound to stop bleeding quickly, and moved his hands - despite the excruciating pain - in a series of elaborate gestures, all the while chanting the complicated spell. 

The fire suddenly went out, the seething in the cauldron subsided. Dalamar collapsed to the floor as if struck by lightning. During the minutes he lay there helpless and gathering his strength to get up again, the makeshift bandage soaked through completely and blood began to drip onto the floor. When he finally managed to sit up, he had to close his eyes to avoid being overwhelmed by the dizzying rush of blood in his ears and the unsteady beating of his heart. After his body had acclimated to the new position, he reached for the bandages he had put into his pockets before the ritual and carefully replaced the rag.

Once he felt better, he got up and approached the cauldron. He hovered a hand over it: the temperature had gone from hot to cold. He took the tongs, dipped them into the icy remains, and stilled when he felt them touch something creaking quietly on the bottom. He grabbed the object and pulled it out: it was a small stone, slightly larger than an eye and dripping with black ichor. On its sleek surface, the elf could see thin red veins. 

Dalamar dropped it into his hand: it had the same temperature as his flesh. In some ways, it was like holding a piece of his own heart. 

His bloodstone. 

*** 

Raistlin teleported right to the entrance of the dungeon with an audible snap. He was tired and frustrated; he needed to blow off steam together with Dalamar, to insult Crysania, all the clerics of Istar, and all the gods of Krynn. Another fourteen days like this, and he would go mad. 

But then he decided he just wanted to go to sleep. The last debate had left him exhausted, and the pleasant silence of his basement seemed a blessing after the omnipresent chatter of the Temple or its shrill hymns to Paladine. Without making detours, he went straight to his room to try to sleep.

He had just finished exchanging his robes for a dressing gown when he realized Dalamar had teleported silently just beyond the threshold of his bedroom. He turned. The dark elf was there, waiting, his gray eyes amused by something. 

“Welcome,” Raistlin commented caustically, masking his surprise. “I would like to point out that if you had knocked, I would have opened the door...” his voice trailed off when his senses finally perceived the aura of the elf, one completely different than before. Darker. Dangerous.

Raistlin’s eyes widened as he took in the news. A necromantic aura surrounded the elf, an aura he recognized quite easily, being it so similar to his own. He raised a hand, murmuring a short spell for reading the magic. He took a step back, aghast because he sensed the presence of a new bloodstone, tuned toDalamar’s soul. 

“What have you done?” he asked in a choked voice. “Have you gone mad?” 

Dalamar unfastened his cloak and opened the neck of his robes, revealing the mark of Fistandantilus’s hand on his chest: all that was left of them were five faint grayish scars. Over them, a new bloodstone hung from a silver chain. 

“Not at all, _shalafi_ ,” murmured the elf with a cold and quiet voice, “I have found the solution.”

Raistlin continued to analyze the aura with his magical sight, moving his lips without making a sound. His thoughts ran at an insane speed. Meanwhile, the elf approached, grabbing his hand. 

“Watch this,” he whispered excitedly. 

Raistlin’s gaze went down to Dalamar’s smooth and strong hand holding his thin wrist. The elf’s tanned skin was in stark contrast with Raistlin’s white one, the blue veins easily visible. Their contact activated no drain spells. 

Raistlin’s breathing accelerated as he studied the energies of the two bloodstones. He could feel the magical power thrumming through the artifacts, but they were inactive: like two lions observing each other on opposite sides of a clearing, then turning and looking the other way.

“I should hang you up by your toes for what you did!” growled Raistlin. “Why would you risk...” 

Dalamar pulled him close and silenced him with an aggressive kiss. Raistlin returned it fiercely for a moment before pushing him away, but the elf resisted. 

“Punish me, then, _shalafi_ ,” Dalamar whispered against his lips, then tried to bite his ear. He lowered his head and trailed his tongue along Raistlin’s neck. “Your apprentice was very disobedient.” 

Raistlin disentangled himself. “Damn you!” he spat, baring his teeth. 

Dalamar bowed. “By all means, _shalafi_ , make your tests. Check the stone, study me, if you want. You will find out that the student has at last equaled the teacher. I’m at your disposal,” he added with a mocking smile, quite pleased with himself. 

Raistlin narrowed his eyes. “Undress and lie on the bed,” he hissed so quietly that he was almost inaudible. 

Dalamar’s wicked smile widened. While Raistlin was chanting softly, summoning a second enchantment for studying auras and vital forces, the dark elf slipped out of his black robes, revealing the bloody bandage around his shoulder. Wearing only his bloodstone, he pushed aside the covers of Raistlin’s bed and laid down languorously. 

Raistlin remained standing, motionless, lost in concentration, his eyes narrowed, for a few minutes. Then he awakened, turned off the light of the Staff of Magius, and went to the fireplace, poking the logs until the fire roared, then came to sit on the edge of the bed. 

The wounds on the elf’s chest were completely closed, replaced by five scars. “I could have returned here and found you dead,” Raistlin murmured, suppressing the sharp pain he felt at the thought. While hovering an open hand over the elf’s chest, his eyes suddenly turned milky under the effect of a third spell to analyze the magic stone. 

“It would have been better to find me dead rather witness the scene, wouldn’t it?” 

“You know, I think I should take your suggestion and punish my ‘apprentice’ for real,” said mildly Raistlin. “You promised me not to try anything - anything - without me.” 

“I have not just tried. I knew I was going to be successful,” answered Dalamar, his mouth twisting. 

Raistlin placed a hand on the scarred skin of the elf’s chest, watching intently. Nothing, no exchange of energies. 

When Raistlin spoke next, his voice was soft as his touch. “You have become bolder. And more powerful, too,” he murmured. “But don’t forget that necromancy is not a game.” 

“I know that well. But Nuitari is with me.” The pride in the elf’s eyes grew fiercer. “It’s what I’ve always been destined to become.” 

Raistlin remained silent, lightly caressing Dalamar’s silky skin. He could faintly feel the difference between the scars and the healthy skin through his fingertips. There was a slight difference in temperature, too. 

“You already know how this will end if you continue like this,” Dalamar admonished, lowering his voice and raising a black eyebrow. 

Raistlin met his gaze, the hint of a smile in his blue eyes. “I know. I am the Master of the Past and the Present, aren’t I?” 

The dark elf dropped his head against the pillow, looking at the archmage with half-lidded eyes. His long eyelashes were darkening his grey eyes, turning them almost violet. 

Raistlin continued drawing circles on Dalamar’s chest, looking intently at his fingertips, sliding down the elf’s ribcage, his collarbone, and stopping on the delicate hollow above it. The elf’s skin was cool and smooth as silk. The straight and strong line where Dalamar’s clavicle met the shoulder was a work of art. 

Raistlin raised his hand and held it up just above the bandaged shoulder, closing his eyes while studying the wound underneath it. He frowned and glanced at his apprentice with reprobation, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he placed his palm on the navel of the elf, whose body tensed with a shiver of excitement. 

Dalamar’s pupils were blown wide and dark with passion. He tried to grab Raistlin’s wrist, but the human shook his head, taking the elf’s forearm and pressing it gently onto the mattress. 

“No, apprentice,” whispered Raistlin, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You must stay still. I told you I would punish you, didn’t I?” 

Dalamar’s eyes rejoiced. A muscle on his face flickered. He tried to maintain a facade of impassiveness, though a slight smile rose out on his lips - lips that seemed chiseled into the finest marble. 

“By your command, _shalafi_ ,” he whispered. 

*** 

Later, Raistlin got up without making any noise, his movements so light that they did not wake the dark elf. 

He threw his heavy dressing gown over his shoulders and stood for some minutes beside the bed, looking at Dalamar’s sleeping form. 

The elf’s attractive face had regained softness: both the piercing thinness from his imprisonment in Palanthas and the injuries from his incarceration in Istar were gone. The cheekbones no longer protruded; the long black lashes brushed against the cheeks; the slanted eyes had no longer dark circles under them; the beautiful lips were slightly parted as if waiting for a kiss. The silvery chain glinted at his neck, its pendant hidden underneath the elf’s body. 

Raistlin closed his eyes, recalling a memory not his own: more than two thousand years before, the sorcerer Fistandantilus, at the first signs of old age, had desperately sought the source of eternal youth. He had spent years researching, hidden in his secret lair beneath the Garnet Mountains. Finally, he had found Someone who had offered him a deal and had given him the bloodstone and its secrets as a gift. 

“Dalamar, what have you done?” he whispered, in vain because he knew the answer all too well. 

He left the room, crossing the cold corridor to the laboratory. Here, Dalamar had already removed the remnants of the ritual and he had put every tool and ingredient back to its place. One book, however, was still on the stand. 

Raistlin caressed the last page, turning it to read the previous one. His mind swamped by horror and disgust as he found the words he – somewhat - remembered. 

_Let my heart stop living - and let it start beating again only for you - gift this humble servant the pawn of your power - and your absolute control over life and death. Hear my cry of death - and my cry of triumph._

_Dark Queen, Five-headed Dragon, Goddess of the night, Takhisis I invoke you - and I swear allegiance to your endless majesty._

  
  


Greenedera

____________________

Next Chapter: Puppets

[ ](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Dalamar-the-Dark-sketch-portrait-699669143)

Explore my other DL fantart here: [LINK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637739/chapters/59869858/edit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta of this chapter.  
> \---  
> I hope you enjoyed the surprise. I was looking for a way to free Dalamar from his curse. Then I remembered that in Canon (and in the Musical), Dalamar had a special “relationship” with Takhisis, and it is often quoted that he swore allegiance to her, something that has always puzzled me in the light of Dalamar’s previous commitment to Nuitari. Well, I said to myself, why not?  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry.  
> Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> NOTE ABOUT "THE MUSICAL" - while writing this fic I was listening like crazy "The Last Trial", and some lines of the English adaptation worked their way in the text. Quotes and credits are annotated in a separate Work on my profile.


	11. Puppets

“I ... I don’t know, Raistlin,” said Crysania. “I learned a lot from this experience in Istar. Now, I’m very doubtful about the deed you are talking about. Think about it: look around here, the Kingdom of Good! I am certain Paladine’s wisdom has led us to Istar, where corruption has ceased! This city was built on compassion! Here the lion walks next to the lamb, here Paladine’s light shines on everything! People are happy; the Church protects everyone!” 

Raistlin moved the glass, spinning the wine and looking into the red liquid. He and Crysania once again sat in his apartment, talking of inconsequential nothings. But today was an important day, and he had a little surprise for Crysania. “You mean that the Church asks nations to graze peacefully and blindly, while it takes care of guiding them.” 

“But it protects people from Evil!” 

“What right has the Church to pass judgment so harshly?” asked Raistlin lightly. He knew Crysania didn’t really understand what he was saying, but slowly – slowly – he was getting under her skin. “Why do you not see the tyrant hiding there beneath piety? Of course, no one's begging on all these bright streets: the jails are crammed full with those too poor to eat.” 

“No, Raistlin, you’ll see that we glorify God through the Church’s righteous deeds. There is no need to question because the Lord’s will is spoken through the Kingpriest’s voice.” 

“Revered Daughter... I know you think you have the answers, and surely faith does make you stronger. You are fearless, and your soul is pure as the first snow,” the mage said, shaking his head and holding out his hand to her despite his dislike for the woman. He could do it; he would do it. “If only everyone else here were like you, this city wouldn’t be doomed.” 

_Incredible that my tongue isn’t melting in my mouth speaking all these hateful flatteries._

Crysania fidgeted slightly, nervous all of a sudden. Then, she inhaled a breath, took his hand gently, and whispered: “The Kingdom of Heaven is within reach, Raistlin. I strongly believe that if you listened to the words of the Kingpriest just once, you would no longer be able to look at the darkness without being horrified by it.” 

Raistlin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You do, do you?” Despite himself, Raistlin's lips tilted into a slight derisive smile. “So, let me hear them, Crysania. You know I... I trust you,” he concluded as his throat went dry. He sipped his wine. 

Startled, she brightened and looked up at him, then flushed and averted her eyes. “You won’t regret this decision! Follow me! This afternoon the Kingpriest will give a speech precisely about the Good in the world!” 

Raistlin let himself be led meekly to one of the halls, where hundreds of people gathered to hear the Kingpriest’s homily. The crowd parted in silence, like a school of fish when a shark approaches, allowing the passage of the black wizard and the priestess beside him. 

“Listen,” she whispered when they reached one of the lodges. “Don’t you see how his words kindle the sacred fire of faith in the hearts of those who hear them?” 

The archmage didn’t answer. Then he whispered: “Tell me, Crysania. If that is so, why are all the true clerics absent today?”

She raised her chin. “You lie! I have known my share of true clerics, here in Istar! Good people, honest people, blessed by Paladine!” she replied passionately. 

“And where are they now?” the young wizard murmured, hiding a sarcastic smile. 

The Revered Daughter looked around, blinking, and listened to the frivolous conversations in which the white-robed clerics were involved. They were eating and drinking, telling jokes and anecdotes, and sometimes remembered to pay attention to the Kingpriest. 

“This can't be true,” said Crysania, turning pale and looking around frantically. “But... the Kingpriest is such a holy man! His mission is so pure! There is no need to challenge the Queen of Darkness when such a man can truly eliminate evil from the world!” 

Raistlin almost felt sorry for her. He had always been subject to weaknesses of this kind, at times, towards those creatures too unfortunate to survive. A mouse without a paw, a bird with a broken wing, a miserable gully dwarf… or a young woman who was obviously retarded. In other circumstances, he could have adopted her like she was some kind of pet, going so far as to experience genuine pity for her. 

“Why would I conceal the whole truth from my ally? It's better you know all, there's no need to lie. Look through his spell,” he whispered instead with a grimace. With one hand, he threw a simple counter-spell to dissolve the illusion of the cleric at the head of the Church. 

After a minute, he observed Crysania flee from the Great Hall: indeed, in search for the other true clerics, whom she would not find. It happened thirteen days before the Cataclysm, and it became known in later history as the Night of Doom: that night the true clerics left Krynn to join the Kingdom of Heavens forever and be spared by the Cataclysm. All but one. 

*** 

Raistlin returned to the dungeon and reached his room, faintly illuminated by the soft light emanating from the embers in the fireplace. He found Dalamar exactly where he had left him two hours earlier: in his bed. 

The two sorcerers had spent the whole night studying and then, unaware of the passage of time, had gone on for most of the morning. Eventually, the fatigue had started to set in, and both had collapsed onto Raistlin’s bed: Dalamar had fallen asleep instantly. Raistlin had stayed awake instead for fear of forgetting the appointment with Crysania. He would never miss that one in particular – after all, the Night of Doom would happen just once in history. 

Raistlin was dead tired now. He took off his cloak and replaced his wizard robe with a dressing gown, then approached the bed with light steps. However, he could not hope to elude the excellent hearing of the elf. Dalamar cracked an eye open. 

“ _Shalafi,_ ” he murmured, his voice muffled by sleep. There was a sluggishness to Dalamar as he moved to adjust the pillows beneath him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stifled a yawn. 

“Sorry, _Shalori_ , I didn’t mean to wake you,” Raistlin replied softly, sitting on the bed. He caressed Dalamar’s hair, winding his fingers in the soft strands spilling over the pillow. 

“How did it go?” asked the Silvanesti, blinking slowly. 

Raistlin climbed onto the bed, propping himself up on his arms to hover over Dalamar’s body.

“Shush,” murmured the human. “Sleep. Everything went well. We’ll talk later.” 

Raistlin draped himself across Dalamar, abandoning his tired limbs voluptuously on the bedcovers. He nuzzled the elf’s arm until the other changed position, then abandoned his head into the crook of his arm, relishing in Dalamar’s clear scent - a wonderful scent that reminded him of springtime storms in the forest. His lips occupied themselves with the Silvanesti’s neck. 

Dalamar hummed softly, stirring and adjusting to being more comfortable and pulled Raistlin into a hug, peppering light kisses on his forehead. He stroked his hand down Raistlin’s neck and along the joint between neck and shoulder, sending a shiver down the other’s spine. 

Raistlin’s fingers dug playfully into the soft skin of Dalamar’s side, legs twined together, while he nipped the point of one elvish ear. Dalamar sighed and chuckled. The young man pressed his face into his lover’s hair, sighing. He closed his eyes and let the comfortable sensation of the elf's body pressed against his.

Gods, he wanted to stay like this forever. 

*** 

Dalamar did not approve Raistlin’s plan to flush out Tasslehoff. The Silvanesti would have preferred a more direct approach: he would have waited for Tas to visit Caramon, then he would have sealed the cells of the Arena and killed everyone at once. The natural disasters that would later go down in history as the “Thirteen Warnings” of the Gods to the Kingpriest had already started, no one would have paid too much attention to some incident at the Arena. 

However, Dalamar had to admit that the intermediate alternative, carefully orchestrated by Raistlin in every detail, would have more advantages than disadvantages in the long run. Dalamar was glad not to have a direct role in it for now: he found the situation uncomfortable. Raistlin also thought so, but his determination was so strong that the dark elf would not doubt that he could sustain the act for as long as necessary, precisely as he was doing with Crysania. 

The two wizards wanted to draw Tas close with good manners, using Caramon like a puppet - fortunately, he was still the same idiot as before. Raistlin had made sure that Caramon had learned, from multiple sources, a series of information about Fistandantilus: that he held his slave contract, that he was cruel, powerful, and evil… and that he was very predictable, and always slept in an apartment among the outermost buildings of the vast complex of Istar’s Temple. And, incredibly, thanks to a smooth but unexpected victory in the Arena, Caramon would have a free night! And he could sneak in the Temple complex with the excuse of meeting some noblewoman! What a lucky man. 

So, that night, Raistlin had cast a spell on himself. His hair was white, the skin golden, and the hourglass eyes were back: it was better to be clear and obvious when it came to Caramon: he was so stupid that he might not even recognise his own twin. 

Then, the mage went to the rooms of Fistandantilus’s representative apartment and went to “sleep,” locking the door with a simple key and not with many spells as he was used to. Dalamar sat in the corner of the room, turned invisible by a spell. He had been instructed to remain unseen and silent, and he was forbidden from doing anything except saving Raistlin’s life if he was put in danger by Caramon. A ridiculous event, as the archmage had pointed out to him several times; however, Dalamar had refused to wait in the laboratory. 

Caramon arrived precisely at the time the wizards had bet on. They heard him wandering in the corridor of the building, and then fumbling with the lock. He could have woken up a squadron of dwarves, let alone an ancient lich that didn’t need to sleep. Idiot. 

_You call him an idiot, but you would have done the same thing, wouldn’t you?_ Dalamar asked himself bitterly, remembering the murderous plan that had led him to Istar in the first place. _Well._ _That’s not true... I could have attacked Crysania, and killed her: that would have stopped the Lich’s plans..._ The elf put those useless thoughts aside and returned to focus on the scene. 

Caramon entered the room and, trying to be silent and stealthy, approached the wizard’s bed. He raised a dagger, then hesitated. 

“ _Shirak._ ” 

The staff of Magius, leaning against the wall, lit the scene. The figure in the bed dramatically threw back the hood hiding his face, light shining on white hair and golden skin. 

“Raist!” Caramon exclaimed, taking a step back, almost tripping. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, my beloved brother” Raistlin answered, whispering. “What were you going to do?” At the same time, Dalamar heard Raistlin’s thought: o _ne day, I will get revenge for all the times you used_ _that utterly stupid nickname, my brother._

Dalamar glanced at Raistlin. His tone was so persuasive and convincing that if they hadn’t set all this scene together, he would have believed him too. 

Hours earlier, Raistlin had been clear. 

“Over the past two years, Fistandantilus has deluded Caramon that he has a loving brother. I don’t mean to be just as cloying - I would put my sanity at risk - but I certainly can’t throw away all that previous work, which allows us to manipulate this imbecile to our advantage” he had said. “Trust me, leave the talking to me.” 

“Remind me,” Dalamar had replied, gritting his teeth, “why do you want your brother alive and on our side.” 

“I have more than one reason to. One is to support my position in the eyes of Crysania. His trust in me will make Crysania believe me even more. But don’t worry, Dalamar. I haven’t forgotten what he did to you and me. He will pay. He will pay for everything.” 

Now, in the warm, damp night, Raistlin’s voice sounded silky. “My brother… I didn’t expect to find you here. What were you going to do?” 

“But how…?” said Caramon, confused. “Don’t you know they sent me back in time? Don’t you know about Crysania?” 

The man lowered the dagger and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the other hand. 

_Dimwit!_ “Crysania? Yes, I met her. I spoke to her. But she wasn't sure you were in Istar. After all, she woke up surrounded only by clerics, here at the Temple... “ 

Raistlin swung his legs over the bed and stood up. He reached a shelf, where he lit a lantern. The warm glow tempered the cold light cast by the light of the Staff. Caramon shifted uncomfortably. 

“But... why are you here? They told me these are Fistandantilus’s lodgings... I don’t understand. I thought you would be somewhere else.” 

Raistlin leaned on a windowsill and narrated, with a measured voice and dramatic pauses, how he had met and defeated the evil wizard Fistandantilus in the last few months. Oh, yes, he had taken his place in the Temple, hoping that nobody would notice the exchange... 

“You see, my brother, I usually hide behind this appearance, more similar to Fistandantilus’s” he explained, then dropped the illusion of golden skin and white hair, showing its current appearance of red hair and pale skin. 

Caramon furrowed his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead. 

“But at the Arena, they told me Fistandantilus bought me as a slave!” 

Raistlin shrugged. “So what? I didn’t even know he owned slaves.” 

“But...” 

“Calm down, my brother. Which of us got himself imprisoned? I came here only to defeat the ancient wizard and take possession of his knowledge” the wizard’s tone softened, “but I am glad that you survived your misadventures, and that we met again.” Raistlin spun around and pierced Caramon with his eyes. “Even if I just risked dying, by your own hand.” 

Caramon shook his head, ashamed, “But now what do we do now?” 

“Don’t worry, my brother. I already have a plan. In fact, we are about to leave and travel through time. It will happen soon, since the Cataclysm looms over us. Of course, I will bring you, too, to safety.” 

“Oh,” replied Caramon frowning. “Another journey through time? Are we going home?” 

“Not yet, Caramon. Before that, Crysania and I will need your help with an important venture. But tell me, my brother. Wayreth’s wizards sent you back in time so the Kingpriest could cure Crysania, right?”

“Hmm,” answered Caramon, looking down. “For something else, too. But this is not important anymore, I suppose…”

Raistlin narrowed his eyes. “How did they plan for you to come back?” 

Caramon brightened. He knew the right answer. “Par-Salian gave me a Device of Time Journeying.” 

_What? WHAT? I knew it!_

Raistlin made a strangled noise, which he concealed in partially fake coughing. Dalamar could hear his mental cry reverberate in his head. 

Dalamar remembered very well their past conversations about the Device. Both he and Raistlin agreed that Par Salian would not have been foolish enough to give something priceless like that to Caramon... But now, in the joined minds of the two wizards, a thought arose adamantine: they must obtain that Device. 

“I see... thankfully,” said Raistlin, a little short of breath. “For a moment, I feared that he had sent you on a suicide mission,” he finished hoarsely. 

“No, he - Par-Salian, I mean - told me to bring Crysania to the clerics, so they could heal her... and that at some point, we would be able to go back and use the thing!” Caramon said enthusiastically, before lowering his voice and continuing with embarrassment and hesitation. “But I still haven’t been able to get close to her. I could have gone to her tonight, but I thought it would have been more important to kill the black wizard that was holding me prisoner... and then I’d go get her. It’s all so complicated.” 

Raistlin twisted his hands, hidden under the sleeves of his robe: “Did Par-Salian explain to you at least how to use this Device, to return home?” 

“I... Yes, but I’m not sure I understood... But he left me written instructions,” the warrior replied, scratching his head. 

“Do you have them here? With you?” Raistlin replied just a little too hastily, small cracks in his acting. 

“No. Tas has all my valuable things. I forgot to tell you, Tas is in Istar, too and...” a pause, and Caramon blushed. He looked away and busied himself adjusting his belt. “... yes, just Tas.” 

_Filthy piece of.._. Dalamar thought, narrowing his eyes. 

Raistlin was silent, and Caramon continued to speak, alternating glances at the furniture and at his twin. “But I don’t know if I should give you that Device... The wizards forbid me from handing it to you. They said to guard it jealously. Raist, I don’t understand... they told me a LOT of things about you! They said you are going to die if you insist on your plan! They lie, right?” 

Dalamar could see the anger Raistlin was suppressing. He hid it well, though, fidgeting with the folds of his robes. 

“In fact, they lied,” Raistlin murmured. “As for my death, it is obvious they hoped in vain'. I just wanted to travel to the past to defeat this wizard and have his books - you know I wanted them for a long time.” 

“Now I remember! I was sure I already knew that name. He’s the wizard who wrote that book you found In Xak Tsaroth!” exclaimed Caramon. “I get it. Although I don’t think those books have ever done you any good. And now you’ve acquired new ones, too, by defeating the wizard himself!” 

“He was evil,” the wizard replied patiently. “I freed the world from a monster.” 

Caramon took a step forward. “Will you free me now? Can we go home now that Crysania is feeling better?” 

Raistlin shook his head and spoke slowly, as if he was terribly fatigued. “Now, unfortunately, I am weakened. I need some time before I can cast the Timespin spell. I just hope I get enough rest. But I’m worried: I have to ascertain I can bring all of you back... you know, there are many of us, and I don’t have much time to prepare myself... for some of you we may have to use the Device anyway...” 

“Ah... then in case we’ll use it together... but you didn’t answer me. Now that you know where I am... you will set me free, won’t you? From the slave pits?” 

Raistlin shook his head, apologetic. “Unfortunately, I don’t know how to free you without blowing my cover. We are in the heart of Istar, and here the black wizards are persecuted. So far, I have not dared to leave my rooms for fear of being discovered. I don’t know even how Fistandantilus managed to be accepted here…” 

“Oh...” replied Caramon saddened. His shoulders slumped. “It’s difficult for both of us.” 

The wizard took a few steps towards him and put a hand on his forearm. “My brother... I ask you to be patient. For now, you are safer at the Arena than near me... please hold on. I will warn you in time as soon as we are ready to go.” He quickly walked away and pulled a bag out of a drawer. “Here, take this, however little it can help you, I’m sure that this bag of coins will provide you with some necessities.” 

“But... Raist... how are you going to warn me if you can’t get out?” Caramon asked, the bag clutched in his hand. 

Raistlin pretended to ponder, pacing the room back and forth for two minutes. Eventually, he stopped. “I have an idea: Tasslehoff can easily get into the Temple, nobody can stop a determined kender. We will use him as a messenger.” 

Caramon smiled. “Yes, it could work! And I could tell him to bring you the instructions of the Device of Time Journeying so you can study them... “ 

The mage smiled mildly. “Excellent, I would say... goodnight, my brother...” 

Caramon didn’t want to leave, but eventually, Raistlin was able to kick him off. Finally, Raistlin closed the door, sealed it with a spell, and turned to Dalamar. 

“The Device of Time Journeying! Can you believe it?” he exclaimed, but then continued without pausing, narrowing his eyes. “You knew it?” 

Dalamar, involuntarily feeling a twinge of something in front of that gaze, dispersed his spell of invisibility and rose to his feet. “I already told you: obviously, I didn’t. I wouldn’t have hidden such important information from you.” 

“You realise the possibilities ...” 

Dalamar could glimpse many thoughts rushing like shooting stars behind Raistlin’s eyes; too fast for the elf to decipher - or keep up with Raistlin’s reasoning. 

“We could,” the elf said hesitantly, watching Raistlin walk back and forth nervously, “use it to get us back home, despite the block you encountered in your Timespin Spell.” 

“No, no,” said the other, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “It wouldn’t work. Not for me, even if I wasn’t stuck here. Haven’t you read the book about time travel by Elyah of Valkinord?” 

"I told you, I’m focusing on other topics...” 

“The Device of Time Journeying is an anchor that the Master of the Tower of High Sorcery provides to the time traveller, to reverse the effect of the Timespin that has just been cast!” Raistlin said feverishly, “So this specific Device has been set work on Caramon, Crysania, you or, gods forbid, Tasslehoff. We will use it to bring you back to the present as soon as we can!” 

The Silvanesti frowned. “I already told you that I won’t go back before it becomes absolutely necessary...” 

“But you could use it a second time and return back to Istar!” 

Dalamar blinked, looking at him in amazement. “To go and come back? What’s the point? Why not stay here in the first place?” 

“Knowledge, Dalamar! Knowledge!” screamed Raistlin, stepping closer, his eyes shining with fervour. “I’m stuck here, and there are so many things I don’t _know_! Fistandantilus had planned a series of actions, but his planning is partially useless for what I want to do! And here in the past, I don’t have access to our most important asset... the Chronicles of the Palanthas Library about the Dwarven Gate War!” 

Dalamar lowered his gaze. He found Raistlin’s hand and brought it up to his lips, kissing his knuckles. He threaded their fingers together. Raistlin’s skin seemed even warmer than usual. 

“Yes, now I understand. I could bring you the information you need. But are you sure I will be able to return?” Dalamar asked suspiciously, peering intently into Raistlin’s face and studying his thoughts as carefully as possible. Dalamar’s gaze was hard and searching, demanding the truth. He did not rule out the possibility that Raistlin could lie to him on purpose, just to send him back to the present and out of the way. 

“Yes.” The archmage replied. His eyes, fixed unblinkingly on Dalamar, were like mirrors. 

_Greenedera_

_________________

_Next chapter: Trap_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta of this chapter.  
> \---  
> "Atemporal" is an alternative finale to Skull Bearer's fanfic "Temporal"  
> \---  
> NOTE ABOUT "THE MUSICAL" - while writing this fic I was listening like crazy "The Last Trial", and some lines of the English adaptation worked their way in the text. Quotes and credits are annotated in a separate Work on my profile.


	12. Trap

Dalamar leaned his head back on the edge of the bathtub, musing about the wonders of Istar. One of those was running hot water. 

The water was transported to all the buildings by a complex system of raised viaducts that traveled for miles to the wealthy city, where it entered a large system to be sorted into different aqueducts and so on. Even the humblest home had at least one running water pump. In the wealthier houses, the boilers located in the cellars provided a constant supply of hot water, too - obviously having slaves regularly feeding the ovens with fuel. 

All that sophisticated technology was about to be lost - except, perhaps, in some remote corner of Mount Nevermind. Dalamar had never been overly interested in mechanics, but still he knew the Istar engineers were able to do incredible things and that, after the Cataclysm, human society would take a big step back in this field. 

The elves, besides, had always been too reluctant to “distort nature” using such ugly things as lead pipes and massive aqueducts: better to heat the water the old way - besides, House Servitor did exist for this reason. It was thanks to the elves’ disregard for technology that they taught magic to humble people like Dalamar, a descendant of generations of servants. Simple spells to heat the water, whisk away some ugly sewage, and so on could make the dwellings of noble elves as much luxurious as an Istar lord’s one, indeed even more so. 

Thus, between his modest ancestry and the difficult times of exile, the hot baths that Dalamar had been able to enjoy had always been the result of buckets and buckets of water heated on the fireplace and brought back and forth, or - more rarely - of precious spells. 

In Fistandantilus’ apartment in the Temple, instead, it was enough to turn a small valve, and in a few minutes, all Dalamar had to do was soak in the relaxing hot water. A temptation too enticing not to take advantage of it at every opportunity. 

Dalamar, his eyes closed, was letting the hot water lull him. The room was full of steam, and the faint essence in the soap – Robinia and mint - was pleasant. 

The bathroom door opened. The elf smiled in anticipation but kept his eyes closed. 

He heard the quiet rustling of robes, the thud as Raistlin left the Staff of Magius against the wall, the muffled steps of leather boots. 

Raistlin’s spicy scent of sulfur and saltpeter reached Dalamar, who inhaled, savoring it, and let the air seep out through his lips. 

His beloved came beside the tub and cradled Dalamar’s head into his hands, caressing the damp hair tenderly. 

His eyes still closed, Dalamar enjoyed the sensation of those warm hands. “You must be very hot, with those robes on,” he murmured, leaning his head against the stomach of his lover, drenching the velvet. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at Raistlin through dark lashes. 

Raistlin had his hood down, and his hair was already rebelling against the damp air of the room, curling slightly at the tips. On his stern face, there was the faintest smile, just a curl of his lips. He brushed Dalamar’s wet hair out of his face. 

Too blissed out to really do anything, the elf smiled.  _ Kiss me. _

Raistlin leaned down to brush Dalamar’s forehead with a light kiss. The elf could feel Raistlin’s breath hot against his skin, and the caress of his lips sent an electric shock through the elf’s brain. 

Dalamar raised a hand out of the water, weaving his wet fingers between the soft locks, tugging Raistlin nearer, tilting him forward and accidentally unbalancing him. 

“Ah!” Raistlin stopped his fall bracing against Dalamar’s shoulders, pushing him completely underneath the water but regaining his balance. The elf tried to prop itself up with a foot but instead worsened his situation, splashing and spraying water everywhere. 

Raistlin chuckled and took a step back, opening the collar of his robe to counter the suffocating heat of the room. 

When Dalamar finally got out of the tub, the floor was soaking wet. The elf, snickering, took the towel Raistlin handed him, then wrapped it around his hips. He approached the human, raising his chin. “You interrupted my bath,” he complained playfully in a menacing voice. 

“Yes, you’re so very threatening. You look like a wet kitten,” answered the other with a sly smile. 

They locked eyes, completely enthralled in each other. Raistlin smiled, and it was amazingly bright, intense, and awesome. Dalamar spread his arms, and Raistlin hugged him, letting the elf hold him. 

The Silvanesti heard Raistlin’s thought brush softly against his mind.  _ I missed these hugs so much. _

Dalamar squeezed him even harder, feeling a twinge in his heart.  _ You are my life _ . 

Raistlin nipped at Dalamar’s lower lip, then lowered his head and kissed each scar on the elf’s chest. Dalamar stroked Raistlin’s hair, then gathered it up into his fingers and pulled ever so slightly. 

Raistlin raised his head, following the gesture, and Dalamar made him gently bend backward until he could see the tendons of the man’s neck standing out starkly. Then, he brushed kisses against Raistlin’s throat. 

The Silvanesti released the hair from his hold, allowing the other to straighten up from the uncomfortable position and concentrated on freeing Raistlin from his robes. 

Raistlin let him, running a finger along the pointed tip of Dalamar’s ear, then brushed his lips on the elf’s cheekbone. 

Dalamar wrapped an arm around Raistlin’s waist, pulling him into a hug, pressing their undressed bodies together. 

Raistlin ran his tongue along Dalamar’s bottom lip. And when he felt what Dalamar’s hands were doing, moaned into their kiss. 

***

The next day, Dalamar went in search of Crysania to control her movements and weave the subtle thread of magic that would divert her thoughts towards the paths they had planned. 

Usually, at that time of the day, Crysania participated in the Invocations of the Hundred Names of Paladine, which took place in the northern wing of the Temple. When the Silvanesti reached the chapel, he immediately noticed the absence of the woman among the figures bent over their rosaries. He called himself a fool for not having checked her position with a spell; then, the dark elf began to search for her by going through the nearby rooms and cloisters. 

Finally, Dalamar found Crysania. Seeing the priestess in the company of a large human dressed in golden plaques and fancy red leather, Dalamar instinctively bowed his head, hiding his features under the hood, before remembering that Caramon could not have recognized him under the illusion he was wearing. The wizard sneaked into a closet, where he cast an invisibility spell so he could get closer and discover what the priestess and the gladiator were talking about. 

“No, Caramon, we can’t leave now. I think I’m almost on the verge of convincing him...” 

“I... I didn’t mean this, m’ lady. I told you, I think you should go home with the magical Device with Tasslehoff. I’ll take care of staying here with Raistlin, helping him with whatever his special mission is.” 

Dalamar rolled his eyes. 

“No, Caramon, I must stay,” said the woman warmly. “He needs not only a cleric of good to illuminate the way but the help of his brother and best friend too. Together, we will support him in his grand plan. He needs us. He was very sick, you know.” 

“What? What happened?” Caramon’s voice boomed and echoed between the marble walls. 

“I’m not sure. I haven’t been able to meet him for several days. Finally, he agreed to see me, we’ll meet this afternoon. But that’s not the point, Caramon. The point is: I will undergo this journey not only to defeat the Evil Goddess but also to redeem Raistlin’s soul: during our journey, he will understand that he can turn his back on evil and live in light...” 

“What if he won’t agree?” 

“I... I think... he will,” she replied, blushing. “I spoke to him, I explained to him that evil devours itself... he promised to think about it...” 

Caramon frowned. “He listened?”

“He did. Many times” answered Crysania, her face completely red. Even if her words were discreet, her demeanor was telling another story, and even dumb Caramon noticed.

“You… You two... there is something between the two of you, isn’t it?” the warrior asked hopefully. 

Dalamar felt sick; Caramon’s delight was like drinking a bitter draught. How happy was Caramon at the thought that his little brother was finally ‘cured’ of his attraction to someone of the same sex. He was probably already dreaming of the names of his future nephews. 

Crysania did not reply aloud, but the ghost of every emotion passed across her face as she busied herself, adjusting the folds of her white robes. She, too, was probably already naming her hypothetical children. 

“My lady,” said the man solemnly. “If you’re right, if you really can... can... change him, I will support you! You know, those wizards said a lot of horrible things about Raist, but I knew they were wrong! It would be fantastic if you could truly change him... “ 

He trailed off, and the priestess put a hand on his arm to comfort him. 

“The power of love will win, Caramon Majere. The good redeems itself. Paladine is with me: the light that already shines hidden in your brother’s heart will become a dazzling star.” 

_ Lies, and you know it!  _ Dalamar thought, clenching his jaw. __

The dark turned on his heels and left, fantasizing about future revenge. 

_ You’re both so miserable and mean _ . 

*** 

“Finding a kender in a large metropolis is an impossible task. But trapping one with a room full of tricks and trinkets is only a matter of technique,” Raistlin had explained. 

Dalamar was not convinced of that plan, but Raistlin had explained to him that it was the only reliable one. The Device of Time Journeying was not an object that could simply be snatched away, or taken by force: inherent in the process of creating this artifact, there was a protection spell that allowed its bearer to give it to someone else voluntarily, but it prevented theft. 

If they had acted violently, the Device could even vanish into thin air. So, it was necessary to use a particular spell, combined with a certain dose of delicate diplomacy, to push Tas into the right mental disposition and be “convinced” to separate with the precious treasure. 

Raistlin and Dalamar had filled Fistandantilus’s representative apartment with small traps and little treasures, carefully arranged in a growing succession of complexity and charm. Caramon would soon send Tas to talk to Raistlin, and they were ready. 

So, when the kender picked the lock, deactivated the minor trap on the door, and saw a room full of magical trinkets, he could only come in to take a closer look. He stepped as light as a cat to the nearest magical jar - full of winking eyes- unaware that Raistlin was already rushing there on the wings of magic, alerted by an alarm spell. 

Tas was defusing the trap hidden inside the lock of a glass case - inside, there was a little engraved hourglass - when the wizard cleared his throat behind him. 

“I advise you not to touch it,” he whispered threateningly - the kender would have expected nothing different. 

“I... oh, Raistlin! What a surprise to see you!” Tas was, as usual, dressed in colorful garments and was carrying many pouches and bags. His hair today was combed in tiny braids tied together in a topknot. His little face, old and young at the same time, had the most sincere smile. “What a beautiful complexion you have, you look fine, Raistlin! Healthy! Well, relatively a surprise, because I actually came here to meet you, but hey! I was afraid you were lost, so I was fixing this case, I think someone inadvertently had dismantled the lock, and I really wouldn’t want that someone could get hurt... “Tas, in the meantime, had unscrewed one of the golden bolts of a coffee table.

“Didn’t Caramon send you?” asked Raistlin, his lips twisted in a smirk as he concentrated on his plan.

“Caramon! Sure! Yes, he told me that now you pretend to be his slave master, that soon you will take us all on a magical journey. Would you cast a spell on me too?” While talking, Tas was still – subconsciously? - working on the lock, without even looking at it. “But why did you dye your hair? And how did you change back the color of your skin and eyes? You’re better though! I believe that…” 

A click - then a small explosion of gray material enveloped Tas’s hands. Rather than being fully hit by it, however, he was only partially wrapped in the cobweb filaments. __

“Caramon’s note, Tas...” Raistlin whispered, approaching cautiously. 

“Ah, yes, the note. It is in my pouch; I would give it to you, but as you can see, I have my hands entangled in this fascinating thing... “ 

Raistlin took another step closer. “Which one?” 

“The blue one. Or the brown one. If you could free me, I’d take it...” 

“I don’t want you to miss the fun.” Raistlin murmured, releasing the clasp and opening the pouch. He raised an eyebrow as he scanned its contents, and then pulled out a letter, enclosed in a fine but crumpled envelope. 

While Tasslehoff was fighting the sticky strands, which were becoming larger and larger the longer he tried to get free, Raistlin skimmed the content of the note. 

“Tas,” he said in an annoyed voice. “Where’s the Device? I need to see it to understand the code to which these instructions refer. Didn’t Caramon tell you?”

“Quite right! Where’s the Device?” Tas exclaimed, ignoring Raistlin’s dismayed gaze. Then, with a rapid - and anatomically impossible - movement, he twisted his body and freed himself from the web, giving up his red waistcoat and his leather leggings – but still wearing everything else on, including shirt and pouches. 

He fumbled with his backpack and took out a large metal pendant: the Device in its “portable” form. Only of correctly opened, it would take the appearance of a scepter set with gems and crystal spheres, connected by chains and rings. Tas lifted it, turning it and looking at it with admiration. 

“Caramon told me that I must never lose it. He couldn’t leave it in his room, you know, the slavers are constantly poking around. But he said I must never separate from it, and that I can’t lose it. And, uhm, he told me not to give it to you under any circumstances. No offense intended. Well, you can watch it from there. You know, we need it to get back to Solace. Well, technically, I don’t know if it will take us back to Solace or Wayreth, but considering that the Forest of Wayreth can go where it wants, we could also appear in Wayreth  _ and _ be in Solace at the same time!” 

“Give it to me, Tas. You can’t use it unless I explain how to activate it. And to do it, I need to take it,” said Raistlin in a strained voice. 

“Explain to me from there! I turn it over, and if you need to pretend to activate it... are there magic words? In the instructions, there are a lot of explanations about many buttons and levers... I can’t wait to press them!” 

Raistlin felt a slight tingling of magic. As expected, if Tas had not proven cooperative, Dalamar would have intervened. 

The kender stiffened suddenly, his arms rigid in front of him, and the small fingers were opening one by one. 

“Awesome! Did you cast me a spell? But it’s amazing! Look, my hands are opening and offering you the Device as if you were doing it of my own will! I didn’t see you move your mouth though... how did you cast it? “ 

“Thanks, Tas, very kind,” murmured Raistlin, taking the metallic pendant before it fell and holding it gently to his chest. It was heavier than expected. 

“Good evening Tasslehoff” whispered Dalamar, appearing at the far end of the room and approaching.

“Hey, Dalamar! A family reunion!” chirped Tas, still half paralyzed. “I thought the guards arrested you... and instead, you are here! So... does this mean you guys made up? Now I understand why Raistlin has changed hair color! Tika once told me that when someone dyes his hair, it’s because of love!” 

Dalamar came closer as Raistlin took a step back, inspecting with keen interest the Device in his hands. 

“…Caramon told me that you had quarreled and were no longer together, but instead, here you are! You still love each other, don’t you? Are you lovers again?” 

Dalamar, ignoring the persistent chatter of the kender, hovered his hand on Tas’s head, starting to murmur the spell to knock him out. 

“...I always thought Raistlin got better when you were living together because he became much more independent, and even if Caramon wasn’t happy... Hey! Wait!  _ Wait _ !” 

Raistlin jerked his head up, but it was too late. 

“Oooooops!” 

_ Greenedera _

_ ______________ _

_ Next Chapter: Chaos _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry. Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> Atempoal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal".


	13. Chaos

Raistlin sat on a chair in Fistandantilus's apartment, clutching his head in his hands. At his feet, Dalamar was slowly recovering the use of his limbs. The elf rolled on his back and sat up stiffly with a groan. 

The explosion had been violent and unexpected. 

It had thrown Raistlin over the desk. This way, however, he had been spared by the flames that had engulfed Dalamar’s robes. Dalamar had fallen to the ground and things could have gone badly if the fire hadn’t gone out immediately. The tattered clothes of the elf still gave off a burnt smell, but he wasn't seriously hurt. Around them, the room had been devastated by the uncontrolled magic: the floor, the walls, and the ceiling were charred; several rare and precious objects in the room had been shattered; the Device of Time Journeying had been shattered, too. 

Raistlin felt in his mouth the bitter taste of failure, and his heart was still beating rapidly. He was overwhelmed by fury, fury against Tasslehoff for ruining everything, against Dalamar for having lost control of the spell… 

However, first of all, the archmage was unable to accept his _own_ failure: he was the most powerful, he was the wisest - he was, in some ways, also the oldest, considering Fistandantilus knowledge. He should have foreseen _this_ could happen! 

Now they had neither the kender nor the Device. Raistlin's expression turned from frenzied anger, to... frightened. 

The mage rubbed at the bridge of his nose while watching the mess in the room. _Now indeed I could kill Tasslehoff on sight. Without regrets._

It had all happened so quickly... 

"Raistlin, I'm sorry," Dalamar breathed, looking at him with shame. "I thought I was able to put a kender to sleep." 

Raistlin waved his hand absently in the air, tone long-suffering. "It's not about power or ability; you know that as well as I do. Each spell has a minimal chance of failing: we could move a finger move the wrong way, or breathe in some dust and start coughing instead of reciting the words of magic, or our target could just have the most improbable stroke of luck. And when it comes to kender - especially this kender, in this particular historical moment - to underestimate the crushing force of odds was foolish. No, Dalamar. You are not weak or inept. The truth is, I was a fool not to calculate this disaster in advance." 

“How could you have predicted the magic would backlash like that?” asked Dalamar, shaking his head.

“Kender are not supposed to travel through time!” said Raistlin, massaging his neck. “But it happened! Now the fabric of time is warping around  Tasslehoff , bringing into reality the most improbable odds. There was at least one chance that our spells would go wild, and  _ that’s  _ what happened - because their target was a creature that  shouldn't be in this time at all!”

"Do you think Paladine himself intervened?” Dalamar asked, dropping his head in his hands, still seated on the floor. 

Raistlin's eyes blazed dangerously. "No, I do not think so. Paladine doesn't have complete control over a creature of Chaos, either. The  _ odds _ are our enemy. And their power... is enormous." Raistlin said, lamely, trying to keep the welling tension in his chest from reaching his voice. “No, I think Paladine didn’t intervene in person, but I think the gods are having a great time keeping me from getting my hands on that Device! It’s obvious! They don’t want me to leave this time! And so it happened  exactly what was necessary for Tasslehoff to run away with that Device! My spell hit the wrong target, and yours exploded!”

"I'm sorry." Dalamar's voice was muffled by his hands, now covering his face. 

"Don't be sorry," Raistlin retorted hoarsely, eyes feverishly bright and fixed on Dalamar. "Feeling sorry is useless! We must use our energies to work out a solution!" 

"Raistlin, the Device of Time Journeying is broken! And Tasslehoff took the pieces away! What solution could we ever find?" cried Dalamar, getting up wearily. "Rather, let me see your hand, please. I can’t tell if you got burned.." 

Dalamar approached but Raistlin, shaking his head, stood up and hid his hands in the sleeves of his robes. The scarlet burn caused by the spell gone wild ached, but the archmage could not bear being fussed over at this moment. 

"If necessary, I will raze every building in Istar to find the pieces of that stupid Device..." muttered Raistlin, glancing away. 

Dalamar stiffened and crossed his arms. "But it's broken! You can never hope to repair it! You showed me the passage of the book that explains how to build those cursed things! Now the Device is no longer hooked to a specific spell!" 

Raistlin remained silent. The dark elf was right, he knew that, but nevertheless, he could not accept it. He had found a ripped piece of paper behind the desk: it was just half of the note about the Device; useless without the other piece. He was agitated, confused, and so angry that he could not reason with clarity. 

The weight of failure - of such a clumsy failure! - was terrible. 

How Dalamar's spell could have gone so wrong remained a mystery. The sleep spell hadn't worked; the paralyzing spell the elf had previously cast on Tas had suddenly vanished, so the kender had jumped forward to snatch the Device and the note from Raistlin's hands. The archmage had instinctively cast a simple battle spell to throw the kender backward. At the same time, Dalamar had summoned a curse to injure Tas with a wave of pain... 

Without understanding how, Raistlin had ended up thrown backward by an explosion, while Dalamar had collapsed to the ground, struck by a wave of pain, as flames engulfed the room. The Device had fallen to the ground, shattering in a dozen pieces as if it had been a crystal glass (and not a magical artifact theoretically capable of surviving the Cataclysm itself). Raistlin had been quite busy being thrown back by the explosion at that moment, but he could visualize the moment in which the Device had shattered as if the image had been etched into his brain. 

While both Raistlin and Dalamar had been overwhelmed by the spells gone crazy, Raistlin had glimpsed Tas - preposterously unharmed - quickly collecting the pieces and shards of the Device and escaping through the door of the apartment. The said door had opened under the kender’s fingertips without offering resistance (as if it had not been blocked by a damned spell cast by Raistlin himself upon entering the room). 

If someone had explained to Raistlin that Tasslehoff Burrfoot was in truth a high-level wizard, the young man would have believed it. The sequence of events he had just witnessed had been unbelievable. 

A feeling of calmness stole over Raistlin. He had failed. No need to fuss over it. He pulled himself together quickly. 

He sighed and stepped closer to Dalamar, taking his hands between his own. The delicate fingers of the elf were full of blisters, and the skin on his face was covered with reddish patches. Through the shreds of his black robes, Raistlin could spot other burns on his right arm and shoulder. By comparison, Raistlin's scalded hand was nothing. Considering what had just happened, they both got off with little damage. 

Raistlin embraced the Silvanesti carefully, handling him gently with infinite tenderness. Dalamar hugged him back in silence, leaning slightly on him. They remained like this for a few minutes until their heartbeats calmed down, and their breaths synchronized. Raistlin kissed Dalamar's temple and sighed. 

He felt a surge of despair rise in his throat, thinking about the absurdity of their predicament. And now, they were at the starting point again. A kender was on the loose, and no Device of Time Journeying available... just a self-righteous cleric, and twelve days to the Cataclysm. 

*** 

Despite his good resolutions, during the following two days, Raistlin couldn't calm down about what had happened with Tasslehoff, constantly berating himself for his error. Eventually, he steeled himself to meet Caramon at the Arena, in the vain hope of finding the kender there – or, at least, the shards of the Device in Caramon's room. 

So, the feared wizard Fistandantilus reached the school of gladiators and commanded a private interview with his slave. 

Caramon was brought to him shortly afterward, directly from the training yard, sweaty and smelly like a pig. The wizard, as soon as the door closed, sealed the small room with a spell against spies and eavesdroppers, then sank into the only chair. 

The big oaf was all excited about the ridiculous squabbles and quarrels among the people who worked at the Arena. Without even wondering why Raistlin had bothered to visit him, he started chatting about a minotaur, a siren, and who knows what other useless jailbirds who shared the profession of show cattle with him. 

Raistlin let him go on for at least five minutes - a good brother listens five minutes, doesn't he? - then interrupted the ridiculous chatter. 

"My brother, we need to talk." 

"Oh. Yes, Raist." Caramon replied, coming around and making a face, getting nervous because of the edge in Raistlin's tone. He scratched his sweaty scalp. 

"First of all," Raistlin said pointedly - and his voice came out in a hiss that hardly masked his irritation- "you could have told me that my apprentice came to Istar with you. I discovered by pure chance that he was locked up in one of the prisons. He is still a useful resource, you know, and I hate to waste resources." 

Caramon turned purple, then exploded: "He's an asshole! When we got to Istar, he made it look like I was the one guilty of injuring Lady Crysania!" 

"Nonetheless, he is my property. You withheld information, keeping a secret from me. You have hurt me, my brother," said the wizard in his best-distressed tone, looking away. 

"But, Raist... no, I didn't want to hurt you!" Caramon stepped closer, but a piercing glance by Raistlin stopped him. He gestured. "It's just to protect you! He may have become your apprentice, but he is just waiting for an opportunity to betray you! You wrote it to me many times in those letters! You didn’t trust him then, and you shouldn’t now..." Caramon added in a weak voice. 

He was, of course, quoting some of the many letters that Fistandantilus had sent Caramon when he was playing as Raistlin. In this correspondence, Raistlin appeared changed, precisely as Caramon had dreamed of: a caring man, interested in his twin, but undoubtedly busy with his studies at the tower. Fistandantilus enjoyed much telling Caramon how he had abandoned his relationship with Dalamar, reducing the elf to a mere servant on whom to dump only the most stinking tasks. And Caramon had been so happy. Oh, so happy. 

The wizard answered through gritted teeth: "I have the situation firmly under control. Since you are quoting those letters, I remember you that I explained why I still keep him around me.. It's all part of my revenge." 

"Bah," Caramon grunted, jealous. "We would do great even without him. I thought you two were no longer... well, whatever. You should have left him to rot in prison." 

"Obviously," Raistlin almost growled, "I will bring my apprentice with me, so I can keep him where I can keep an eye on him and use him. You will understand the usefulness of having an assistant trained in this complex undertaking in which we are venturing... " 

"But in this way, you will have another person to carry with your spell ..." 

"Trust me; I will find a way," the wizard sneered, one hand clenching into a fist. 

Raistlin sighed, looking at the large idiot dressed in bright brass plaques and shining leather. 

"So, my brother. Besides not telling me about my apprentice, is there anything else I should know?" the wizard asked, a hint of irritation bleeding into his voice. "I'm afraid Tasslehoff has turned out to be a…not reliable messenger." 

"Tas? Well, everything as usual. I told him to bring you Par-Salian's note about the Device. He told me he showed it to you, that it's all right, isn't it?" 

Raistlin fought the urge to lash out and was barely able to stand still, glowering at him in silence. 

"He also told me that...” Caramon blushed, “he met Dalamar, too. And that, according to him, you are again... Uhm. But, it is not possible, right Raist? You broke up for real, didn't you? You came to your senses. You are healed, aren't you?." 

The wizard remained impassive, but couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at him. Healed. 

How close he went to snap and destroy that place.

_No. I must stay focused on why I've come to the Arena. Don't think about it. Focus on the kender._

"Congratulations on entrusting an invaluable artifact to a kender, my brother," Raistlin said hoarsely, a knot of fury blocking his breath. 

Caramon shrugged, smiling tentatively. "It's all right, Raist. Tas hid it in a safe place. You know, the slavers come often to rummage among our things, there." 

"Where is he?" asked Raistlin, his voice low. 

"Around. We agree to meet every two or three days. The guards are particularly bent on capturing him. But when we are almost going to leave Istar, I will tell him to retrieve the Device and bring it with him, of course." 

Raistlin swallowed. _Why? Why must I deal with this creature?_ "I need that Device to broaden my time travel spell so I can carry more people. Tasslehoff took it away. You have to get it back, then bring it to me. Is that clear?" 

"Uh, Raist... I don't know... I mean, I could ask Tas to bring it back here, but what if Arak finds it then?" 

"Arak?" 

"The slaver. I told you, He searches us and our rooms as well." 

"Tell Tasslehoff to bring it to me, at the Temple." 

"I don't know, Raist..." replied his twin, lowering his gaze and staring intently at his feet. 

Raistlin's eyes glinted dangerously. "Caramon, this is important." 

"Par-Salian said that if by chance you leave before us, that Device would be the only mean we have to go back home..." 

"I could never leave you here, my brother," said Raistlin in a controlled voice. 

They looked at each other in the eyes. Raistlin saw, in Caramon's brown gaze, doubt: he trusted Raistlin and did _not_ at the same time. Although the big man had been captivated by Fistandantilus's letters, deep down, he knew that it could not really have been Raistlin's work. Some hidden and almost forgotten part of his warrior instinct told Caramon that Raistlin's change of mind had been all too easy to be true. He could not trust it to be real.

 _I'm wasting precious time with this idiot!_ _The Device is broken, I probably wouldn't be able to fix it in time anyway!_ Raistlin stood up and walked to the door. He couldn't stay a minute longer in that stinky little room. "I'm exhausted. I am preparing the spell to leave Istar, and I have a lot to do. Stay here and wait for my call. It will be sudden: be ready. The Cataclysm is approaching." 

"But, Raist ..." 

The wizard spun around and cast Caramon a fierce look. "Farewell, my dear brother... and take care not to hide other important information from me!" 

*** 

Dalamar rarely and unwillingly left the dungeon, and with good reason. Every day of the Thirteen Warning would be different, each day a portent or a catastrophe, sent by the Gods to warn the people of their anger, would sweep over the world: today, ten days before the Cataclysm, the sky was red. The ominous color made the feeling of impending catastrophe even worse. He hated this city so much. 

As if that wasn't enough, Raistlin was restless, irritable, and truly intractable in those days. It was getting harder and harder to endure his sharp tongue. 

How confidently his lover had explained his plan only weeks earlier: they would charm the priestess, enter the Abyss and exit in Palanthas... yet, it was as if he no longer believed in it. 

Raistlin was weak, ill, and, like everyone else in Istar, he could not sleep. Worse, he said visions of Fistandantilus and Takhisis were persecuting him, and apparently, there was nothing Dalamar could do to lighten his heart. 

Now that Dalamar was under the protective influence of his bloodstone, there was no reason to fear physical contact between them. Still, the only comfort Raistlin allowed himself was to sit together in front of the hearth while Dalamar tried to untie the knots in the muscles of his shoulders. 

Sometimes they slept together, Raistlin huddled in a ball, and Dalamar embracing him. But the human's sleep was disturbed, haunted, and some days ago he had decided it was the best for him to sleep alone. This way, at least one of them could rest. 

This day, they argued again about the kender. Raistlin wanted to capture him - alive or perhaps even dead - and the day before he had unleashed spies and thugs to find him. They would try catching all the kender of Istar, if necessary. But the Gods were against them, and the laws of probability twisted against Raistlin. So far, not even a single kender had been captured, dead or alive. 

"The gods are mocking me!!" Raistlin commented bitterly. 

"But what do you care about the kender! He is practically already dead!” Dalamar replied wearily. They already had this conversation the day before. 

"I have a bad feeling. We are not in control of events. And I was a fool not to send you home weeks ago! "Raistlin complained, pacing back and forth. 

"Not this again!" Dalamar burst out and looked up pointedly at Raistlin. 

Raistlin shook his head defeatedly, gritting his teeth. "I would send you away now, but I'm too weak. Too weak even to personally go hunting for Tasslehoff! Heck, probably I can barely bring you, Crysania and Caramon into the future..." 

"Leave Caramon here!" Dalamar interrupted him. "What do you care?" 

"I think I will, all things considered," Raistlin murmured feverishly, almost to himself. 

"Raistlin" the elf joined him, putting his hands on his shoulders. "The Cataclysm is upon us and every day you are worse off. Why can't we anticipate our departure?" 

"Crysania is not ready! Have you not noticed? Maybe her stupidity is contagious for elves?" the other snapped, narrowing his eyes and glowering at him. 

Dalamar ignored the remark. "Are you sure? She seems quite ready to me." 

Raistlin pushed him back. "I'm the one who planted this weed of passion! Coaxing it to grow as I poured poison! And I'm the one who can say when she's ready!" he cried. 

"Raistlin, damn it!" Dalamar exclaimed. His eyes narrowed menacingly. He opened his mouth to retaliate but Raistlin cut him off. 

"Leave me alone," Raistlin whispered, turning his back on him. "I am not angry with you, you know that. We are in a difficult situation; we have a plan, we just have to stick to it." 

Dalamar stood still, waiting. After a few seconds, Raistlin turned his head slightly and gave him a penetrating look. "Go, please." 

Raistlin's words quenched something without a name in Dalamar's heart. Without a word, the elf left. 

*** 

Raistlin had retired to his room, so Dalamar decided he would stalk Crysania and make sure that her thoughts remained focused on the planned route. In addition, the Black Robe worried that the kender could reappear out of nowhere and interact with the woman, saying something that could nullify weeks of work on coaxing her the right direction. Considering their predicament, he didn't want to leave anything to chance. 

If Crysania had been a true priestess, a woman of strong faith with a minimum of wisdom and an ounce of a brain, she would have left with the other true clerics during the Night of Doom. She could be living forever in the Kingdom of Heaven with Paladine and instead, here she was, yearning for a black wizard, burning with the desire to be the first cleric to defeat the Dark Queen. 

All these facts, considering the blatant signals of warning that the Gods were sending to the Kingpriest in those days, only showed how stupid that woman was. Who knows what could happen in her little brain if Tas had said the wrong thing to her? 

In the last days, Dalamar had tried to track down Tasslehoff using both his magic and more conventional means. Needless to say, so far it had been in vain. Although the idea of abandoning the search was unpleasant, they were fighting against crushing odds. 

The elf walked in front of a large brass vase and quickly checked his appearance: as expected, the innocent gaze of a human acolyte returned the gaze. He relaxed, planning his path and the people he would talk to. 

However, he snapped out of his reverie as he spotted not Crysania but Caramon. Several feet away, the tall man was heading for the wing of Fistandantilus's apartment. 

Intrigued, Dalamar cloaked himself in invisibility and followed him. When he was certain that Caramon was truly directed to the place where he had previously met his brother, the dark elf decided to intervene, sending a mental warning to Raistlin. 

Raistlin's response was weary but ready. In the few minutes it took Caramon to reach the apartment in the abandoned corridor and raise his hand to knock on the door, they were prepared. The day before, “Fistandantilus “ had summoned dozens of servants to clean and repair his messed up and scorched apartment for Crysania's sake, and now the main room was almost the same as before. The door opened by itself, showing Raistlin sitting at the table, intent on studying a book as if he had always been there. 

"My brother," the archmage said dryly. "What a surprise." 

"Um, Raist. Hello." 

Dalamar quietly slipped inside. 

Raistlin regarded his twin with half-lidded eyes. "What brings you here? It seems that you are on leave from your busy schedule of shows." 

"Look, Raist..." mumbled Caramon, shifting uncomfortably. "I wanted to ask you something important... have you seen Tasslehoff?" 

The wizard raised his chin, and the light from the windows reflected on his attentive mirror-like eyes. "How come you ask this question?" 

"I haven't seen him today either and, well, I know he came to see you a few days ago, then that evening he went to me to say hi, but then I never saw him again, and I was wondering if you knew anything," Caramon blurted rapidly. 

Raistlin stared at him silently for some seconds before replying. "Are you trying to tell me that Tasslehoff has disappeared into thin air?" 

"Well, yes!" Caramon said, blushing, "And that's not all of it..." 

Raistlin's face was stern, impassive, but he couldn't fool Dalamar. He was on the verge of exploding. 

The archmage leaned on his chair. "Go on, my brother." 

_Here we go_ , Raistlin commented silently. 

Dalamar conveyed his assent, scrutinizing the scene.

"Tas has disappeared, and the Device of Time Journeying with him. I'm worried," revealed Caramon in an unusually quiet tone. "I mean, we needed it to go home, didn't we? Tas showed it to you so that you could study it. Then he put it in a safe place to prevent Arak from finding it... but now a few days have passed, and both are gone..." 

"Did they? You have my compliments. You have lost an artifact of immeasurable value." Raistlin replied, and the anger and the sarcasm in his voice was even more lashing because Dalamar knew how it was – in truth - directed at himself. "The kender might have just bartered it for a bag of candy." 

"Uhm… so you don’t have it, do you? The Device, I mean," asked the big man, hopefully. 

"No, Caramon. Tas came down here, messed up my room, then flew carrying the Device with him," Raistlin replied with such sincerity that Caramon watched him with an astonished expression on his face. 

Then the meaning of his words entered that thick skull, and Caramon’s jaw dropped. "But then... we have to find him!" 

"Yes, it would be appropriate," said the wizard, pretending that he didn’t care about whatever had happened to Tas to not alarm his twin, and resumed his study of the book in front of him. He turned a page, then looked back at Caramon. "You know what? More likely, Tasslehoff inadvertently activated the Device and has already returned home." 

"What? Is such a thing possible?" exclaimed Caramon. 

Raistlin pursed his lips. "Possibly, but not certain. In any case, if you see Tasslehoff, please let me know. I don't think it's appropriate to leave the Device in his hand. Otherwise, he will do fine by himself." 

"But ..." the warrior rubbed his temples, trying to think. "But let's pretend that Tas has truly gone home... how am I going back?" 

The wizard tilted his head and sighed. "But how, with me, of course, my brother. We've already talked about it, haven't we?" 

"But you wanted to go to that place with Crysania first..." Caramon said, uncertain, waving his hands. 

"To say the least." Raistlin sneered. He stood up, and walked slowly toward his twin, locking eyes and keeping him under the spell of his unblinking gaze. "Indeed, we will. However, it would be handy to have someone _I trust_ by my side to watch my back, my brother. You'll come with us." 

Caramon blinked, enthralled by Raistlin's intense expression. "But is this place so far away? And when will you take me back to Solace?" 

Raistlin slowly walked around Caramon. "We will travel with a spell to an era a few decades after the Cataclysm. Once there, the priestess and I will enter the Abyss. Before I enter the Portal, I will send you home", he explained in a persuasive voice. 

The gladiator shook his head as if trying to free it from Raistlin's hold on his brain. "What if Tas is still around here, carrying the Device with him? We cannot just leave our friend here in Istar! How would he escape the Cataclysm and get home?" 

Raistlin's lips curled. "All right. I'll look for him with my magic. If I find him, we will bring him with us. If I don't..." his expression became sharp, "it means that he has already left, and at this moment he is probably rummaging through your pantry in Solace." 

"Oh," Caramon scratched his head. "Alright, then. Let's do it like this." 

"Very well," replied Raistlin coolly, returning to his desk. 

"Then, we will travel through time again?" 

"Exactly." 

"With Crysania ... and Dalamar?" added Caramon, frowning. 

The wizard sat down and steepled his fingers. "Precisely." 

"And when will we leave?" A crease marred Caramon's brow. 

"Just before the Cataclysm." 

Caramon gasped. "But that's dangerous, Raist! Didn't you say there are only a few days left? Can't we leave right now? " 

"No, Caramon," Raistlin's voice was strained. "It is a matter of magical forces which I do not consider necessary to explain to you and that you wouldn’t understand anyway. We will leave in ten days. In the meantime, stay into the Arena and take care of yourself." 

The warrior shifted, adjusting his belt. "I don't like performing at the Arena, Raist. But I met some extraordinary people there: I'm going to warn them that they have to leave the city within the week." 

"Very well. Go." 

"I will try to visit you every day in case you need something," added Caramon, his voice reassuring. "Now that I have won some important fights, they trust more, and let me go out as long as I promise to return before sunset." 

"Perfect." 

"See you soon, Raist. Let me know when we are going to leave." 

"Trust me, you will know." 

Shaking his head again – perhaps, this time, to free the skull from the cobwebs - Caramon left. 

Dalamar dropped his cloaking spell and waited as Raistlin pulled a parchment from a folder and wrote something on it. He signed it with an angry flourish then took a signet ring and sealing wax out of a drawer, then affixed a seal next to his signature. He rolled up the letter and handed it to Dalamar. 

"Please, take this to Arak at the gladiator school." 

Dalamar stepped closer, frowning, and took the scroll. "What is it about?" 

Raistlin answered dryly, a hard edge slipping into his voice, his lips curling. "A simple precaution, and sweet satisfaction."

_Greenedera_

______________

Next Chapter: Warnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry. Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal".  
> \---  
> There are quotes from the Musical inside this chapter! Check my other work "Quotes in Atemporal" for the reference.


	14. Warnings

“Honestly, I believe that this course of action will not bring about the desired result,” Dalamar said cautiously, contemplating the images that flowed in the silver bowl filled with water. 

Three days had passed. As a result of the letter to Arak, Caramon Majere was now held captive in the Arena, unable to leave the place, and had been forced to fight – in real fights, not fake ones - against his new friends. Of course, they were all already condemned, considering that the Cataclysm would be in a few days... but it was clear that Caramon truly cared about them and suffered from being forced to hurt them. The pool showed the man while he was rebelling, protesting, and cursing vehemently against his slaver. When he wasn’t fighting, he was chained in his cell. 

“That bastard,” murmured Raistlin, bent to the ground as he carefully traced runes of white powder on the floor. “It’s just a taste of what he deserves for everything he’d done to us.” 

“In this regard, I agree,” Dalamar said, peering into the pool of divination, “but after this, he will be angry with you. The slavers told him they are carrying out direct orders from his master Fistandantilus. In the past two years, Caramon has changed. By now, he expects much more from his dear little brother, and I think this betrayal will make it more difficult to manipulate him.” 

“I will manage him, as usual,” griped the other angrily, continuing to work on the circle. 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Dalamar murmured to himself, watching the angry and disappointed face of the gladiator. 

“I said it’s all under control!” Raistlin snapped. “Rather than waste your time with my twin, check on the priestess. She’s much more important than him.” The mage lowered his head and muttered darkly, almost to himself. “Honestly, I’m tempted to abandon Caramon here… we can have so many other bodyguards... or rather, someone else to fill his role. That Pheragras guy...” 

“Why don’t we just kill him?” Dalamar replied bluntly. 

Raistlin looked at him sternly, in silence. The elf, however, had glimpsed the briefest expression of genuine surprise, soon hidden under his imprenetable mask. 

“Check out the Revered Daughter,” Raistlin repeated. 

Dalamar sighed silently. It had been worth a try. He renewed his spell and watched the scrying bowl. 

“She sits with a silly face in the main audience hall, listening to the Kingpriest... “ 

“Good.” 

“It is truly incredible. Last night, when I visited her dreams, I found the same stolid conviction again. ‘The Kingpriest is so good and wise, oh, I will learn so much from him. There must have been a mistake; it certainly wasn’t him who instigated the Cataclysm...’” 

“It’s enough for me to listen to her ramblings, without you repeating them to me,” Raistlin snapped dryly. 

“What are you saying? You haven’t seen her for a week!” the dark elf chided him. 

“Stop it, Dalamar. I’m exhausted.” 

“Sorry. I know,” the Silvanesti sighed and rubbed his face. “I feel this heaviness in the air, too. The wrath of the gods is practically a physical sensation. Eat something, at least.” 

“Leave me alone. You sound like my brother,” muttered Raistlin. 

Dalamar gave him a resentful look and returned to stare silently at the bowl. 

Again, he tried to cast a spell to track down Tasslehoff but, for the umpteenth time, it failed. As expected. Gritting his teeth, the dark elf continued to spy on the cleric. 

*** 

“Are my words truly changing you?” asked Crysania warmly, her cheeks turning pink. “Redemption...” 

Dalamar refrained from snorting. He sat in the corner of a room in Fistandantilus’s apartment and - hidden by his usual invisibility spell - witnessed yet another conversation between that insufferable woman and Raistlin. 

Since Raistlin was so troubled by the closeness of the gods these days, Dalamar preferred not to leave him alone with the priestess... especially considering how infatuated and prone to physical contact she was. Not that Raistlin was unable to handle her but... together, they could control her mind much better and, Dalamar’s was more at ease. 

On a couple of occasions, the dark elf had seen a twinkle in the eyes of the Revered Daughter: that wild spark typical of those who have already decided to dive, gathering the courage to attempt a foolhardy kiss... 

Not that Dalamar could do anything about that: the pawns had to be moved carefully, and until Crysania had opened that damned Portal - sooner or later, they would have to come to that part - she was a variable that only a careful strategy could control. The fate of Raistlin was in the hands of a woman with the emotional maturity of an eleven-year-old girl. 

While Raistlin was talking, Crysania devoured him with her eyes. Then her gaze dropped to his lips, and she tensed. But as the woman leaned forward, Raistlin suddenly got up and stepped away, pretending not to see her intention. She bit her lip with a sulking expression before recomposing herself. 

_I could make you squirm,_ mused the dark elf in the meanwhile, coldly studying her profile. _I could murmur in your ear words so obscene to make you sweat and burst into flame; then, with a simple touch, I could make you scream. How fun it would be to see you throw all your hypocrisy away and reduce yourself to panting like an animal..._

 _Check yourself, Dalamar_ , telepathically scolded Raistlin, daring to glance coldly towards the corner where he sat. The look was so frosty it could have chilled the Abyss.

The elf smiled sardonically, even though he knew that no one could see him. 

Meanwhile, Raistlin was speaking. “These are your doubts, Revered Daughter. It is only because you are opening your heart that they rise to your lips just when you come to visit me. You already know how important it is listening to them...” 

“You are right... Elistan always says that it is with true dialogue that one can explore the depths of the soul...” 

The elf focused on Crysania, precisely as they had planned. He evoked a scene and projected it into the woman’s simple brain, easily dodging her weak mental barriers. Really, from a Revered Daughter of Paladine, one should expect the minimum wisdom necessary to control the boundaries of one’s mind when visiting a Black Robe... 

_At the top of a white staircase, Crysania shone. Behind her stood an unadorned but colossal temple._

It was an idea of a place, one where the priestess could imagine herself without any effort. 

_She wore simple white robes and preached to hundreds of faithful, surrounded by a white aura of pure light. She saw herself bringing truth and justice to the world, banishing sorrow, fear, and despair forever. She saw herself beautiful, beloved, worshipped._

Meanwhile, in the room lit by simple candles, Crysania’s speaking rose in volume, exalted by that vision masterfully deposited in her unconscious mind. 

“... each question will lead us to a better understanding of our heart. Any doubts expressed are nothing but a sign of the continuous search for a better self than the previous one…” Crysania trailed off, looking at Raistlin with bright eyes. “Yet when I talk to you, my questions make me look confused. Doubtful. Why?” 

Raistlin bowed his head in a studied gesture, stepping closer and murmuring: “I understand this feeling well.” 

“Really?” She blushed, gripping tightly the armrests of her chair. “Are my humble words touching your heart? Oh, of course, you thought it over carefully...” 

_The priestess dressed in light was no longer in the white temple. She was in Raistlin’s study, in the Tower of High Sorcery. The room was brightly lit and she was standing in front of the large panoramic window, the golden rooftops of Palanthas shining in the distance. She clutched the black wizard’s hands in hers._

“We are so alike,” Crysania said suddenly, looking up at Raistlin, who now towered over her. “I knew from the first moment I met you! Ah, laugh at me if you want...But I know I am right. You said I’m as ambitious as you... I thought about it, you know, and I’m starting to think that this may be true...” 

Raistlin’s lips curled, his eyes showing the tiniest spark of amusement. “The darkness has opened, and you came to me.” 

T _he priestess of light lowered the black wizard’s hood, revealing Raistlin’s stern face, and kissed him sweetly. Then the vision became even brighter and the Revered Daughter threw her arms around the wizard’s neck. He embraced her, wrapping her in the black robes._

Dalamar increased the power of his spell, sending invisible tentacles of magic curling around the woman. He knew that for Crysania, the feeling was almost physical, all but tangible. 

_The wizard’s hands caressed her hips, ascending along the ribs and then resting on the curve of her back; meanwhile, he gently kissed her eyelids, temples, and cheeks. She felt a rush of helplessness, a surging tide of warmth that left her limp._

_Then the Black Robe tightened his hold, and fiery heat broke out between the two bodies molded together in the vision. The priestess of light gasped as the wizard’s hand went up to cup the nape of her neck, and his lips whispered passionate words into her ear..._

Crysania’s eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, her pupils blown wide. Then, she awoke suddenly from her daydreaming, blushing. She bowed her head to hide behind the long black hair as she stood up suddenly, swaying on wobbly legs, and headed for the door. 

“Are you already leaving, Revered Daughter?” Raistlin sought, reasonably well hiding the scorn in his voice. “Please, wait. I have to ask you something.” 

“I have to go. Commitments await me,” Crysania breathed, trying to compose herself. “What is your question?” 

“Can you feel it, Crysania?” Raistlin murmured feverishly. 

Her face brightened, her cheeks flushing again. “I... maybe. Are you referring to…” 

“The wrath of the Gods.” 

_Idiot!_ \- Raistlin’s mental insult had been so loud it was a miracle that he had refrained from saying it aloud, Dalamar thought, quirking an eyebrow. 

She seemed to sag with disappointment and listened in silence as Raistlin went on. 

“Their fury is pounding on my mind, deprives me of sleep, and torments me...” Raistlin spoke emphatically: he was all too sincere on this point since these sensations indeed haunted him. “The Thirteen Warnings have begun. Remember?” 

But the priestess had other things on her mind. She shifted her stance, squeezing her legs together, staring hypnotized at Raistlin’s mouth. Her lips were more red than usual, her gray eyes had turned a darker color, like a stormy sky. Then she backed away and left, without a parting word.

The door closed. Raistlin sighed. He seemed so terribly worn out. 

“All right. That's done,” Dalamar mused, looking at Raistlin and hiding the concern growing in his heart. 

The other shook his head. “I have a bad feeling, Dalamar. This plan... doesn’t...” 

Raistlin trailed off and shot him a piercing look. The dark elf, which had become visible again, remained impassive. He didn’t want to show Raistlin how much it worried him to see the archmage waver in his resolve. 

“I’m drained,” Raistlin said abruptly. “The closeness of the gods does wear me out. I’ll go to rest. I will see you later.” 

With that, he teleported away. 

*** 

The letters swam before Dalamar eyes. He exhaled, rubbing his eyes, then snapped the book closed on his desk and got up. He couldn’t read anymore; he was exhausted. As he stretched, his gaze wandered through the laboratory, over the neat rows of components and books. 

The silence in the dungeon was absolute, yet... yet the dark elf thought he heard an echo. It was distant, barely perceptible. Deeply melancholic, like a song of loss and grievance. But it wasn’t a real sound; it was like some sort of foreboding, somewhat connected with the imminent deaths of millions of people. 

The air vibrated with the wrath of the gods those days, but that night it seemed that sorrow prevailed: perhaps Mishakal or someone else wept for all those who would disappear forever. 

Dalamar was fundamentally indifferent to the remorse of the gods. He had coped all his life with the consequences of the Cataclysm, which was just another historical event of the past to him. His heart had no pity nor compassion for the inhabitants of Istar. Instead, he had a long-standing grudge against the cruel actions of the gods: a feeling shared by most people born in the Era of Despair. Of course, during the War of the Lance, the gods had “returned”, and their clerics explained how the gods “had” to do what they had done, to teach the mortals a lesson. Bullshit! 

The dark elf walked back and forth, trying to figure out his sensations. That sad echo in the air incited other feelings in the elf’s heart. Of course, Dalamar knew both regret and loss quite well. He had lost his homeland... he had lost the life he could have had if so many things had gone differently during his youth. It had been many years since he thought about all those occasions he had lost and he didn’t want to think about it now. Firmly, he shut those old regrets back into his heart. He sat down in front of the hearth, staring at the flames, drumming his fingers on the armrest. 

In the hall of his heart, ghosts of the distant past spun around, dancing to the music of that distant sorrowful echo in the air, as was – in a way - the old memories of the one he loved. For two years, he had grieved Raistlin’s loss. He had fought, he had staked his life on his mission for vengeance... Now, having him back was at the same time wonderful and strange. But... 

Raistlin had returned from the realm of oblivion and Dalamar loved him with all his heart even if he wasn’t the same innocent, arrogant, daring, and brash young man the dark elf had fallen in love with. The scars of the past had maimed the human’s soul and although his core of sparkling strength was all the same, Fistandantilus’ essence - cold and haunting - would be forever mixed with his being. To what extent had it corrupted him? Sometimes, Dalamar couldn’t help but wonder.

Against his will, Dalamar grieved for the loss of that innocence, for that young man that pledged himself to all the Gods of magic at once and instead later found himself bound to an evil Lich and the Queen of Darkness. 

Raistlin had been so aloof since the beginning of the Thirteen Warnings... 

The dark elf regarded the empty room, staring at the wall behind which was Raistlin’s room. He hadn’t seen him in over twenty-four hours. The archmage had locked himself up on his own, saying the Gods’ closeness made him sick. 

Dalamar felt that overwhelming feeling too. And that soft echo in his head was unnerving him, making him melancholy. His lover probably felt it, too. 

He got up. 

*** 

He knocked. 

For some seconds, no answer came. Then Raistlin said, in a level voice: “Dalamar, please. I’m not well.” 

“I brought you dinner,” answered the elf coldly. 

“I don’t...” 

“Please.” 

The door opened itself. Dalamar left the cold and damp stones of the corridor and entered the room, which had been heated until it was stifling. 

Raistlin sat on the armchair in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, holding his head with one hand. 

“Place the tray on that table, please,” said the mage in a hoarse voice without looking up. 

Dalamar did as requested, closed the door, and approached quietly. 

He placed his hands on Raistlin’s shoulders, finding them stiff and trembling. The wizard’s body was burning with fever. 

A jolt of pain and worry ran through Dalamar. “Did you take something for the fever?” 

“No.” 

Dalamar did not reply. It was certainly not a good sign that Raistlin hadn’t even the strength to take care of himself. He stepped away and warmed up some water, then took a jar of willow bark. 

“Add elderberry flowers, please” intervened the human without opening his eyes. 

Dalamar smiled nostalgically. He recovered the corresponding jar, and the sweet scent of the tiny dried white flowers filled his nostrils, recalling spring days spent picking them together. “ _Seven times the herbalist bows before the elderberry tree,_ ” a younger Raistlin had taught him years earlier, smiling enthusiastically in sharing his knowledge of herbal lore. “ _Flowers for fever. Berries for bronchitis. Buds for rheumatism...._ ” 

Again, ghosts of the past. Yes, indeed, Raistlin heard them, too. 

The elf handed the hot mug to Raistlin, and positioned himself behind him, gently massaging his shoulders. 

After a few minutes, Raistlin placed the empty cup on the floor and leaned back against the elf’s chest. 

They stood there for a while, Dalamar’s long fingers melting one by one the muscles that felt like cords under the hot skin of his beloved. Their thoughts and emotions mingled again, and they relaxed, listening to the lamentation that vibrated in the fabric of existence that night. The music was intense, sad, and tragic. 

“Come,” said Dalamar, placing a kiss on his head. “You can’t stand up all night.” He walked away and went to straighten the blankets that lay wrinkled on the bed. 

Raistlin sighed and stood up cautiously, glancing at him. When he saw that the elf was taking off his robes, he shook his head. 

“Dalamar, seriously, this is not the moment. I’m exhausted, and I don’t...” 

“Hush,” Dalamar whispered. “Don’t worry. I just want to be here with you” he said, tying his hair back. “It’s just so damn stifling in here.” 

Raistlin approached, meeting his gaze for the first time. It broke Dalamar’s heart to read so much weariness inside those red-rimmed eyes. 

“I can’t sleep. It’s no use you trying to stay here. I’d keep you up all night.” 

The elf came one step closer, enough to smell Raistlin’s herbal scent, staring at him intensely. “You think I don’t already know that? You think I didn't hear you screaming those nights?” 

Raistlin averted his eyes. “Precisely. Go away.” 

Dalamar raised a hand, drew Raistlin closer and laid a chaste kiss on his temple. Then he took the human’s hand and kissed his knuckles. He trailed kisses to the pulse point on his wrist. 

“No. We’ll stay up together tonight.” 

Raistlin surrendered. They extinguished the candles, fixed the fire and laid down - Raistlin, wrapped in blankets and a heavy nightgown, Dalamar half-naked and with one foot outside the covers. 

They didn’t hug each other. Dalamar felt that Raistlin was barely tolerating his presence, haunted as he was by his own ghosts and the dark cloud hovering on his soul. 

Raistlin curled up on the edge of the bed while Dalamar stroked his hair and his back gently, without trying to ask for more. 

The silent dirge of loss continued to echo among the stones, haunting and grieving. 

*** 

The ghosts were quietly crying. Raistlin couldn’t get that sound out of his head. 

Yet, those ghosts weren’t supposed to be there. They were ghosts of the future, from people who would die within days. The entire people of the nation of Istar was wailing, moaning, weeping. 

For some reason, Raistlin could hear them anyway. He knew that Dalamar too felt the sorrow of the gods of good that night but he could not hear the cries of the dead. The elf was lucky not being able to hear them as Raistlin did.

He shifted into the bed, trying to be quiet. The elf had fallen asleep a few hours earlier, a hand still on Raistlin’s head where a caress had stopped halfway. 

It seemed to Raistlin that time was distorting. The Cataclysm would be an event of enormous importance for history... and the Master of Past and Present was caught in that maelstrom, whose current was so strong that it drew him in even before the event itself occurred. 

In all this madness, the fragments of thoughts left by Fistandantilus were closer to the surface, as debris lifted by the current. Dalamar’s gentle touch seemed obscene to him. His closeness was repugnant. His slanted eyes looked like a stranger’s; his sweet scent was revolting. 

They were horrible feelings because they mixed with all the love and yearning he felt for his beloved. Raistlin curled up, trying to exclude them from his mind. Dalamar’s hand slipped limply on the mattress. His quiet breath tickled Raistlin’s nape. 

The ghosts kept crying, and they never wanted to stop. 

["Young Raistlin" - elenazambelli on deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Raistlin-I-see-my-appearance-startles-you-848837859)

________________

_Greenedera_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Seven time the farmer bow to the Elderberry tree” is an italian proverb. This past spring, when I was picking the flowers to prepare elderberry syrup or dry them for tea, I imagined young Raistlin and Dalamar collecting them with me.  
> \---  
> The scenes about the ghosts are a result of a song that haunted my mind for days. It is “Jenny of Oldstones” by Florence + Machine. Every author or reader dreaming of a story, creating it or enjoying it is like Jenny, dancing with ghosts in a solitary tower. The “ghosts” of the characters would haunt you, day and night, for years, and you love them so much, and you just never want to leave that place where you dance with them.  
> \---  
> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal".  
> \---


	15. Spilled sand

It was now only three days until the Cataclysm. That night, even the basements of the Temple of Istar trembled. A bizarre thunderstorm raged on the surface: without rain falling or wind blowing, only crashing thunders and flashing bolts of lightning. The foundations of the magnificent building shuddered. 

The two wizards meticulously observed the circle of the Timespin Spell, checking its runes and its integrity. Raistlin had just finished casting a long spell to begin the awakening of the powerful magic inherent in those symbols, a process that would last three days. 

Dalamar had grown sufficiently familiar with the ritual to be able to support and help the archmage. And yet... Fistandantilus had obviously planned to cast it on his own – as a matter of fact, _he had done it_ \- despite the fury of the gods tainting the magic field. But how? It was like some part of his power had failed to pass to Raistlin during their mysterious struggle. 

The two wizards had already discussed that point, and Raistlin’s conclusion - “There are many memories not yet fully analyzed and reordered” - in Dalamar’s opinion seemed weak and, above all, rather unpleasant. 

How could Raistlin cross the Abyss unscathed if he didn’t master all the power of Fistandantilus? 

_This is probably exactly what haunts him these days._ By scrutinizing Raistlin’s expression and thoughts, the elf was increasingly certain of it. 

To make matters worse, Raistlin could cast only one single Timespin spell. Not two, as he had initially hoped: Dalamar would return to the present in a later time, and no amount of remorse could change this fact. Krynn's magic field was in turmoil, Raistlin's forces were limited, and although his power was great, his body had its limits. Now the Master of Past and Present was confronting the very real prospect of failure, and he was afraid.

Raistlin finished his last chanting, his voice strained, and collapsed onto an antique wooden bench. His forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat.

“After we finish our work here,” the elf said, “you will rest. After that, we will review our plan about what to do when we reunite in Palanthas. I think we should set my return to the Present a week after our arrival.” 

“Should we?” The black-robed mage gave him a tired and leery look. “What, not at the last minute - just before I enter the Abyss - as you insisted yesterday? Have you suddenly changed your mind?” 

“I just want you to be at peace,” said Dalamar in a quiet tone, straightening his back and clasping his hands in his sleeves.

Raistlin sighed and dropped his head against the back of the seat. 

“You know, if I were Fistandantilus, I would think this an exemplary move on your part... Travel to the past, do magical research, gain power, and then vanish as soon as the ship starts sinking. Does it remind you of something?” he asked, shooting the elf a penetrating glance.

Dalamar remained silent, impassive. The last minutes of the shipwreck of the _Perechon_ were among the worst memories of his life and he didn’t like to be reminded of them. 

Raistlin laughed dryly and without humor, an unpleasant rasping sound. “I can read what remains of Fistandantilus’s mind so well that I can reproduce his way of thinking, but I can’t find the key to unlock all the power of the Lich, or to remember how I should plan my actions in detail once in Palanthas or Zhaman.” He bent his head, looking at his hands, opening his long fingers and staring at his palms. “I’ve never had so much magical power in me as I do now, yet I feel... I feel it could be even more!” 

“The bloodstone...” 

“No, we are not talking about physical vigor,” Raistlin whispered. “It’s like one of those complicated gnome machines, which contain all the technology needed to do wonders, but then you watch them work, and all they can do is spit steam and buzz annoyingly...” 

“You are having too many doubts. The power is in your hands, Raistlin. You have defeated Fistandantilus. You took his place.” Dalamar approached, but the other kept him at a distance with a baleful glance. 

“That is the point!” snapped the human, his voice fracking like a whip. “There is something wrong with all this because after all, history teaches us that Fistandantilus _died_ in Zhaman!” 

“I don’t understand why you always focus on this point!” Dalamar replied with a frown, straining to kept his voice even. “For ‘everyone else’, it will be as if this happened, but in reality, you would not die, but enter the Abyss...” 

“Fistandantilus, the Dark One himself, always wanted to enter the Abyss in the first place! But the first time he tried to do it he failed.” Raistlin’s eyes were ablaze, two pits of black fire. The intensity of his gaze was frightening. 

“Don’t you remember who or what stopped him?” Dalamar asked, not for the first time, backing away and leaning on the desk, crossing his arms. He was hoping that, if he kept asking in different moments, maybe Raistlin would - finally - remember the most important bit of information: “Why his spell went wrong?” 

“I... still don’t remember,” Raistlin whispered in a low voice, closing his eyes. The same answer as the last times they had tried. “I have a total, utter, absolute lapse of memory. I do not remember either having lived those events or having studied them. The Lich was simply certain to succeed where he had previously failed, but I don’t know why!” The wizard’s voice was tense and hoarse. “So, I have no way to avoid any mistakes he made the first time.” 

Dalamar swallowed. _Raistlin, where has your unshakeable self-confidence gone?_

Raistlin heard that unspoken thought aloud and stood up abruptly, overturning the bench, which crashed on the floor, and marched to the door. 

Dalamar took two steps and blocked his way, grabbing the mage by the shoulders and pressing him to his chest. For a moment, he feared that Raistlin might reject him. Instead, the man collapsed against him, leaning heavily, his forehead on his shoulder, and sighed. They held each other in silence for a few minutes. 

“Remember that I am your most loyal ally,” said Dalamar in a quiet voice. “I truly believe that by staying by your side as long as possible before you enter the Abyss, I may be of help, giving you the best chance of success.” 

Dalamar felt Raistlin’s hands grab the front of his robes and stiffened for a moment, expecting pain that didn’t come. Only warm, long fingers that twisted the cloth on his chest. Raistlin’s spicy scent filled his nostrils, and his warmth seeped through his skin. 

“Stay with me,” Raistlin whispered in a low voice, holding him tighter. 

“Always,” murmured Dalamar, feeling his heart swell with love. Finally, he had managed to break through his lover’s barriers. He couldn’t bear to be locked out of his heart and mind. Why couldn’t he understand that they were so much stronger together? Why couldn’t he accept that Dalamar would be at his side until the end of time? The Silvanesti let his thoughts scatter across their mental contact, where Raistlin could read them. 

Raistlin’s black cowl had slid down, and his soft hair tickled Dalamar’s lips and chin. “It is...” the human’s reluctant voice was muffled by the fabric of Dalamar’s robes, “...as if I could hear the Dark Lady’s laughter at every step I take. She laughs at me, waiting for me at the end of my journey. And, at the same time, I hear Tasslehoff’s high-pitched voice giggle carefree as Chaos rages, twisting the odds to limit my free will...” 

Dalamar held him tightly against his chest, one hand winding its way into Raistlin’s hair. “No. You are master of your destiny. And, like all mortals, we have a limited number of choices to make.” He caught Raistlin's chin between his fingers, forcing Raistlin to look up at him. “We will make them one at a time and if our journey should stop tomorrow, or in a week... What does it matter? We will face it together.” 

A hideous thought arose from Raistlin’s subconscious, an image so sudden and vivid that he did not have time to hide it before Dalamar’s mind perceived it, given the slight state of mental contact in which they had slipped during their embrace. 

A simple logical form - tinged with the icy cold ruthlessness of the Lich: _enter the elf’s body, return to the present with it; this way, you will be able to live in the era you prefer. Leave the elf’s mind in your current body, and let him be tossed about by fate and the Law of Temporal Necessity toward the destruction of Zhaman..._

They pulled back, looking at each other, horrified. Raistlin’s face was ashen. 

“It’s just a reflex...” 

Dalamar shook his head. “But that’s insane; this could never have been his initial plan! He couldn’t have predicted my arrival in Istar, could he?” 

“No, I told you, it is merely a reflex,” Raistlin interrupted quickly. “It is just His logic that builds solutions using the elements at its disposal, and without consideration for what I am or am not willing to do. But you know very well it is not what I would do. Just as I’m sure there is no one else in... here...” 

Dalamar bowed his head, looking at their intertwined hands. Raistlin’s were paler than the elf’s, the veins and tendons showing under the thin flesh. He caressed them with his slightly darker ones. By now, the age difference between human and elf was increasingly evident. Dalamar’s long fingers were smoother, a clear reminder of his youth.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m here at your side in this, too,” the elf forced himself to say. “And if that ruthless logic can provide us with any new solution to get out of this mess, we’ll listen to it. It is not certain that every suggestion it gives may be wrong.” 

Surprised, Raistlin looked up at him, then flushed slightly and averted his eyes. 

Dalamar’s hands pulled Raistlin closer to his chest yet again, his arms embracing him. His lips covered the human’s, stealing his breath with a gentle kiss. 

Raistlin hummed softly, low in his throat, and then his arms circled Dalamar. The young man bit hard Dalamar’s lips and caught the elf’s nape when the other tried to draw back, pulling him closer and deepening their kiss, which now tasted of blood. His kisses were all taking, like he was desperately drawing something out of Dalamar. Raistlin’s need was devouring Dalamar’s reassurance, was drinking his strength, stealing his resolve. His fingers tangled in the raven hair, pressing the dark elf even closer. A slight stubble on Raistlin’s face scraped against the elf’s skin, but Dalamar didn’t care, he didn’t care at all. They molded together, fitted against one another with long-time ease, their bodies remembering each other’s without effort.

A resounding, distant crash boomed. 

Then a long rumble shook the basement alarmingly for ten heartbeats. Finally, silence fell again, and the thunderstorm could only be heard by listening carefully. 

Raistlin lifted a hand and smoothed a strand of black hair away from the elf’s face, putting it back behind his pointy ear, then stroked the thumb lightly over his cheekbone. 

Looking into his eyes, aware of his nearness, feeling desire sweep over him, Dalamar could not utter anything. Then, as they continued to stare into each other’s eyes, Raistlin took a deep breath and pulled back. 

“I will retire to my room and try to get a couple hours of sleep.” 

Dalamar sighed, straightening. “All right” he answered, watching the human pick up his Staff and prepare to leave. “I’ll go upstairs and see what happened outside.” 

Raistlin paused a moment on the door, one hand on the doorknob, glancing at the dark elf with a smile that was both fond and regretful. “Good night, _shalori,_ ” he said, then left. 

“I love you, _shalafi_ ” whispered Dalamar to the empty room. 

*** 

Raistlin collapsed on the bed and curled in on himself. He felt so weak, so terribly exhausted. Yet he already knew that sleep would elude him again. He hadn’t slept in days, and he felt so utterly spent. 

There were so many things to do. How was it possible he had fallen behind schedule like that? 

Two weeks ago, everything had seemed to be under control... 

_No. That was just wishful thinking. I’ve never had anything under control, nothing at all. From the beginning, my plan has always been fallacious, based on so many assumptions that it could barely be called a plan whatsoever..._

He felt the bitter taste of despair, like a bubble rising in his chest with each breath, like a cancer devouring his limbs, weakening his muscles and flaying his nerves. 

_I should have sent Dalamar home as soon as I could. I should have killed Tasslehoff on the spot as soon as I had the chance._

And so many other regrets, so many mistakes: Raistlin was usually proud of his decisions, decisions he made without mulling over them afterward... but during these days...

Suddenly he was forced to look with wide eyes at all his mistakes, all his wrong choices. Footprints on the sand behind him, and there were so many crossroads where things could have gone differently. Worse? Better? How could he know? 

And yet, during the two years he had been locked-in in his own mind, he had spent time - seemingly endless time - thinking and rethinking about what to do once free. For all the good it did to him. 

_When I was a prisoner, I kept planning what I would do in this or that situation. And I despaired because instead, I could do nothing. Now, however, every single, lowest choice seems to weigh like boulders on my soul, and I can’t help thinking about all the possible consequences. Even being locked in this room has implications, because it means that I’m not with Dalamar, I’m not talking to Crysania, I’m not looking for Tasslehoff._

Still, he didn’t even have the energy to get up and go to his desk. 

His legs were wobbly, and his mind rejected any call to action, responding with an insistent litany: it’s all useless, it’s entirely meaningless, it's pointless. 

_Whatever I do, it doesn’t matter: I will follow in the footsteps of Fistandantilus like a donkey tied to the yoke: I think I am the master of my destiny; instead, I will go around in circles, always around the same pole..._

Without realizing it, the wizard fell into a fitful sleep. 

*** 

Dalamar climbed the long line of stairs and went out into one of the corridors that faced the outside. The thunder ravaged the land with a dark, heavy voice, human-like, and a cacophony of crashes and screams filled the freezing, damp air. Covering his black robes with a hasty illusion to resemble those of an acolyte, Dalamar went to the source of the commotion. 

He soon discovered that one of the minarets of the Great Temple had collapsed due to a violent thunderbolt. He could recognize the doing of the gods in the massive fractures and gashes that disfigured the walls of the fair building. The air was ebbing with raw power, and the sky seemed so close. 

Yet, despite feeling the anger of the gods, Dalamar did not feel particularly affected by it. He was not a creature of that Age, and besides, the hand of Nuitari protected him. 

The god of black magic was angry with the Kingpriest, but he was not at the forefront of this fight. The gods of magic and their wizards had been chased away from the most important civilized nation of that age, yes, but the three Orders still existed in perfect balance: indeed, more united than ever. 

Solinari, Nuitari, and Lunitari sat on the sidelines, letting their parents and other deities unleash their anger on Krynn. 

But there was no protective hand on Raistlin: neither of Nuitari, nor of Lunitari, and indeed not of Solinari. Fistandantilus’s actions had intimidated and fascinated the gods of magic, perhaps, and while continuing to provide him with power, Nuitari apparently did not consider him a favorite. 

Fistandantilus had sworn allegiance to Takhisis before betraying her. A more powerful goddess, yes, but fickler and more demanding. And what Takhisis was thinking of Raistlin’s actions... Dalamar could not guess. All he knew was that the Dark Lady was tormenting the Master of Past and Present relentlessly. 

The only consolation for the dark elf was that although the ritual for summoning the bloodstone had theoretically put him under Takhisis aura, he had never yet felt her touch, but always and only the power of Nuitari during his spells. 

So far.

["Raistlin and Dalamar / Winds of storm" from my deviantart page](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/art/Raistlin-and-Dalamar-Winds-of-storm-848620242)

_Greenedera_

________

_Next chapter: Empty hourglass_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness and @isabellemajere for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry. Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal".  
> \---


	16. Empty hourglass

His mother appeared, calling him from the grave. Raistlin saw the Valenwoods of Solace, so tall, their distant leaves reflecting the light and dancing in the wind; he touched the rough reddish bark while climbing a long set of stairs toward his old house. Light filtered through the leaves and drew doodles on Dalamar’s slightly worn and faded black robes, during a summer day ten years earlier. He watched the red dragons burn the town. He saw Dalamar gasp, pale as a corpse, his chest bleeding from five wounds on his chest. 

Raistlin opened his eyes, fully awake, and perfectly alert. He was alone in the dark room; the fireplace was cold and the Staff of Magius stood beside his bed, its reassuring magical vibration comforting him. 

He took a deep breath, stopping halfway for fear of his usual cough, but this time it didn’t happen. Shaking his head, he got up, robes rustling, then lit a fire in the hearth and heated some water. He sat down on a padded armchair in front of the flames, staring into them while sipping his tea, his thin hands in a tight grip on the mug. 

Out of all the things he needed to do, he had to choose a single goal and concentrate all his energies upon it. The Cataclysm would hit Krynn tomorrow. The kender was gone, and so was the Device of Time Journeying.

Regarding Caramon... as much as the very thought of his gully dwarf of a brother sickened him, Raistlin decided that he would indeed bring him along in his journey through time. 

Crysania, in fact, was the pivot on which his entire plan rested, and, unfortunately, she had her own free will... and she would never be sufficiently malleable if she thought that Raistlin had abandoned Caramon in the past. 

What an obscene thing it was free will in the hands of people too stupid to deserve it. But deep within, Raistlin knew he should be grateful to have _her_. Before he left for another plane of existence with the other true clerics, the Revered Son Denubis had been his backup plan. He was the cleric that Fistandantilus had used, the first time History had been written. But Raistlin hadn’t considered him a wise choice: he wasn’t as naive as Crysania. Add to that the fact - which the mage had considered only in retrospect - that if Raistlin had attempted to exert some kind of “dark charm” on a male cleric, it would have been impossible to keep Dalamar from murdering the said priest. 

In any case, Crysania was widely aware of the presence of Caramon, both thanks to that stupid letter that Par-Salian himself had left her - in defiance of any rule about time travel - and because Caramon himself had gone to visit her, days before. _But shouldn’t slaves be confined into places specially designated for this purpose?_ That being a victorious gladiator gave Caramon the freedom to go for a walk for Istar was truly ridiculous, one of the many contradictions of the civilization of that time… now Raistlin had made sure he was confined inside the Arena, but it was too late.

He sipped the infusion. So many things were slowly getting out of his control. 

And that damned storm kept pounding on his nerves, and there was no hole or dungeon deep enough where he could not hear it. 

So. Raistlin needed Caramon to keep Crysania in line and improve her opinion of the mage. His twin would – inadvertently - be of help in reassuring the woman of the goodness of their deed. In this matter, Caramon would prove to be far more useful than the dark elf: Dalamar was intelligent and motivated, and usually an excellent actor, but his deep hatred of the cleric was like a loaded crossbow in the hand of an ogre. 

Meanwhile _, Dalamar…_

Raistlin intended to send Dalamar away as soon as he was able to. Potentially, as soon as they reached the Palanthas of the 39 after Cataclysm. As the elf had suggested the day before, it would probably be after a week of rest.

He clenched his teeth. He must continue to plan for the last day before the Cataclysm. Raistlin got up and began to meticulously prepare his spells. 

*** 

Lightning illuminated the darkness, and the thunder rumbled relentlessly: the day before the Cataclysm, the gods had unleashed one last terrible storm over the city to manifest their fury. It was late afternoon, but the sky was heavy with dark storm clouds. The rain was pouring down violently, so the corridors of the Temple were dark and full of shadows.

Quick and light feminine footsteps rang out in the marble corridor. 

The steps faltered. Dalamar - hidden nearby under an invisibility spell - gritted his teeth, holding back a growl of frustration, and cast a lightning bolt right in front of the window closest to the Revered Daughter: the shock wave sent her crashing into the nearest door, which promptly opened under her weight, and she fell into Raistlin's arms. 

Raistlin remained stiff and awkward as Crysania clung to his chest, and it was all he could do not to tear her off himself and fling her away.

But instead, he gave her the faintest smile as she looked up at his face, his eyes shadowed by the black hood, and he guided her inside with a gentle motion. 

The dark elf, wrapped in invisibility, entered the room and silently closed the door behind him. He flung himself down in the chair in his customary corner, and propped up his forehead with one hand, watching the drama unfold. The last spell had left him drained. Using magic was terribly tiring during these days, and the wind was blowing – no, screaming – full of arcane energy: casting a spell amid that noise was like whispering in a crowd. 

“Don’t be afraid of the storm, Crysania,” Raistlin was saying to the woman. “Rejoice in the wrath of the gods! They cannot harm us... no, not if you have chosen to come with me.” 

The elf could easily see the despair in Raistlin’s posture. So much depended on these final acts! How was it possible, he wondered, and not for the first time, that they had no choice but to rely on this woman? 

“Come with me,” Raistlin whispered, his clawlike hand gripping her arm, “to the epoch when you will be the only cleric in the world, an epoch in which we will be able to enter the Portal and challenge the Goddess of Evil!” 

Crysania retreated, repulsed, suddenly remembering all her doubts. Like a millstone pulled by a single mule, the woman’s mind could only deal with one problem at a time. “I don’t know, I think it isn’t...” She stopped, her eyes widening, and added: “But you’re sick! What’s going on?” 

“Come with me!” the wizard continued, drawing the word out into a hiss that made Crysania shiver visibly. The words were the ones they had chosen, but the tone was wrong, Dalamar thought. Raistlin took a step forward, nailing her with his hypnotic gaze and grasping her elbows. “Tomorrow the Gods will be busy, and we will travel to the time when the Dark Queen will be vulnerable to the power of a true cleric!” 

“Let me go!” She jerked away indignantly and took a step back. 

Dalamar and Raistlin, who were in close mental contact, shared the same thought: they were losing her. 

Raistlin’s act was failing: he was too ill, too weak, and too stressed to act with the charm he could have been capable of.

The dark elf drew a deep breath, concentrating regardless of the storm disturbing the magic, and threw a glamour on her mind: the sensation of soft black robes around her bare arms, of hot lips on the nape of her neck. 

She blushed, turning away to hide her flustered face and scarlet lips. 

“Crysania,” murmured Raistlin in a soft, wheezing voice, “I am your only chance of survival. Par-Salian sent you here to die... did you know that?” 

She snorted, regaining her composure. “You’re lying!” 

Dalamar concentrated. _Invisible hands were gently caressing the woman’s side, touching the skin around the navel, as if someone was surrounding her in a gentle embrace._

Raistlin gave her a mocking smile. “No, Revered Daughter, I’m not. Come. Look for yourself, the proof of what I am telling you.” 

“What is this?” she asked, staring wide-eyed at a large tome on the desk. 

“A... book,” replied the sorcerer, irritated, before recomposing himself. He caressed the open page with his long, nervous hands. “As you can see, I have studied much in these recent days”, he added, indicating the dozens of books they had moved from the dungeon to the apartment during their final preparations. “This is an encyclopedia of magical devices.” 

_Phantom fingertips brushed the woman’s arms and caressed the backs of her hands._

“I can’t read the language of magic,” she replied haughtily, raising her chin. 

“Oh, I didn’t expect you to trust me. Such is the price of being a wizard in black robes: nobody believes you even when you speak the simplest truth,” Raistlin said softly with a sad and melancholy expression on his face and the faintest note of sarcasm in his voice. “Look. The book is written in common.” 

Dalamar accentuated the intensity of his spell, squeezing the woman’s breasts, and projected shame into her mind. 

“Read,” Raistlin whispered. 

The priestess bowed her head, hiding her red cheeks, and approached the desk with hesitant steps. 

She stared at the drawing and the annotations on the page and then asked, “Is it the Device that Par-Salian gave Caramon? The one he was talking about?” 

“Yes. Read,” repeated Raistlin coldly. 

She finally read it. Then, being so utterly _stupid_ , she still did not understand. She looked up at the wizard, waiting for a hint. 

“Read again,” he murmured, more and more irritated. _Which part of “the device will carry only one person” is unclear to her?_

The elf scratched his chin. _Maybe my illusion is too much of a distraction._

_No, go on._

Dalamar’s smile was sour as he continued his magical and sensual onslaught. 

The woman swayed and sat down suddenly on the stool next to her as she finally understood the text, at the same time feeling someone breathe on her neck. 

“Caramon... knows? Does he know what is written here? That the Device can carry only one person at a time?”

“No,” Raistlin replied, almost purring. “And he certainly would not have expected such a betrayal from the great and wise Par-Salian.” 

Raistlin stared into her eyes, weaving a subtle spell without uttering a single word, nailing her with his dark charm. Hypnotized, she stared at him. 

“They sent you here to die, Crysania... “ Raistlin’s voice was barely above a whisper. “All the Good you were telling me about, where is it? They fear you, Crysania! The only path that leads to true Good is mine! Together, we will defeat Evil, you and I…” 

The seed of doubt firmly planted in her little brain, Raistlin remained silent, trembling slightly from the intensity of the mind compulsion he had woven. 

“I have to think ...” she murmured, dazed. “Tomorrow...” 

“Tomorrow.” He replied. 

*** 

The storm raged even more violently that night, and continued, unabated, until dawn... But after it cleared there was a new tension in the air, and Raistlin was exhausted.

Today was The Day. The great Timespin Spell and the subtle charm spell for Crysania awaited Raistlin; he would call her to his den amid the chaos. She had insisted on staying until the last second in the Temple to be able to listen to the final speech of the King-Priest and thus be able to learn from his mistakes... that was a possibility that Fistandantilus had foreseen, and indeed encouraged: it was probable that in hearing those words, the faith of Crysania would receive the right push towards the blind pride that would make her completely malleable. 

He felt so tired. Fortunately, he had Dalamar at his side. How else could he have managed to carry out both spells? 

How much of Fistandantilus’s power had been lost during the battle in which Raistlin had freed himself? 

The wizard’s smile was twisted. _Dalamar is right: even the thought_ of tackling this great undertaking together _allows us to do it with more courage._

He realized he had been very short-tempered in the last few days: he probably owed an apology to the elf. Damn it; everything was so difficult. 

His robes quietly rustling around his ankles, Raistlin left his bedroom and went to the kitchen, where Markhus had prepared the usual light breakfast for himself and his masters. 

The young man was pale, his brown hair always a bit unruly, but his clothes were in order and the table was set with precision and cleanliness—what a waste of talent, using an apprentice of the Black Robes as a servant. Of course, Markhus was not overly gifted, but neither was he a low league wizard. Fistandantilus chose only the best. 

“Markhus,” Raistlin said aloud, almost without realizing it. His voice came out unusually deep, breaking the silence of those dark rooms. The young man jumped, hearing the wizard calling him by name. He hurriedly got up and bowed, regarding him warily.

“Yes, Master?” 

The archmage stared at him in silence for a few seconds, while a new idea suddenly made its way into his mind. Why not? What did he have to lose? Quickly, he considered as many factors as possible, and - as the apprentice shifted nervously, uncomfortable under the fixed gaze of his teacher - Raistlin made his decision. He drew a deep breath.

“Pack your belongings. Wear plain clothes. I have an important assignment for you, one which will last a long time,” he said, his pale hand gripping tightly the Staff of Magius. 

A spark of interest lit up in the student’s eyes, who snapped to attention, his face alight with curiosity and excitement. “Yes, Master!” he answered quickly. “Gladly! Can I ask you, Master, what is it? So I can decide what to bring with me...” 

Raistlin reflected that his apprentice was probably considering how to use this errand to escape his captivity. He still didn’t know, of course. 

He stepped forward and his hand grasped Markhus’s arm. The apprentice shivered and started to pull away, but the mirror-like eyes and the strong hand of his master held him fast. “There is a small fortress,” Raistlin began, thinking quickly and recalling stories and places. “It’s located south of Palanthas, and it’s surrounded by a small town called AzanCastle. A good fortress, an easily defensible place. I want you to travel there, and take control of it, no matter what it takes, I do not care. Once you have secured your position, you will be able to live safely for several years, study the Art and exercise your power, possibly without breaking the rules of the Conclave, so they will leave you alone. Gather and train a small army and use it to defend your position from legitimate owners or neighboring nobles: in the coming years, there will be many local wars. In about forty years, I will come back, and you will hand me the army.” 

The mage withdrew his hand from the other’s arm. Fascinated and horrified, Markhus stared at his Master. 

“Conquer a fortress, gather an army and hand it over to you... in forty years?” he breathed, wide-eyed.

“You can leave instructions to your successor, if you think you’ll meet your demise before then,” Raistlin answered quietly, with a sardonic smile, then leaned forward, his eyes glowing slyly. “But I don’t think this will happen. Master Dalamar taught you the spell he used to suck the life and lengthen yours if I’m not mistaken.” Of course, without a bloodstone, the boy would not have been able to rejuvenate forever, just for a rather limited number of times, but always beyond the average duration of human life.

The young man gasped. “Yes, Master, he did. But... how can I conquer a fortress on my own? I am honored, but I fear that you are overestimating me.” 

Raistlin let his eyelids droop a little and smirked. “Money, power, and surprise will be excellent allies. You are an intelligent young man, I know you will find a way because this challenge that I gave you is within your means if you put everything into it,” said Raistlin, raising his chin and holding his apprentice's gaze. Yes, in those brown depths he could see the potential. “Today at midday, a portent will happen, one that will upset the lives of millions of people: and you will be already far away, ready to seize the right opportunity and, unlike all the inhabitants of the kingdom of Istar, you will survive the day. Now go. Come back in half an hour with your luggage ready. There are some things I must give you.” 

“Will you cast a spell on Istar?” the apprentice dared to ask, as the ghost of horror, curiosity, and wonder passed on his face. Raistlin could see his inner turmoil at the sudden, strange mission. 

“No. Shortly, I will leave on a magical journey that will let us meet again in forty years. The Cataclysm that will befall Istar today will take place on the behest of others. Hurry up; we don’t have all day.” 

Markhus fled to his room. Raistlin passed through his laboratory and the library, collecting various objects and putting them in a rare magical travel bag. It was a pity that the Timespin spell would allow him to transport very few objects, and certainly not something as sophisticated as a dimensional container capable of carrying things much larger than the container itself. 

Raistlin knew from experience that the Staff of Magius and his Dragon Orb were able to face the journey, as would the bloodstone, but other things could hardly leave. This was why he had worked so hard to archive and hide riches and spellbooks in airtight and enchanted containers scattered throughout the more isolated areas of Krynn so that he could recover them in the future. 

But such was the wealth of that basement, that in his tour Raistlin effortlessly collected money, wonderful and enchanted artifacts, and books that could accompany the journey of his peculiar apprentice and help him in his task. 

So it was that, just over half an hour later, Markhus was gone. Raistlin had given him his gifts, recommended strategies and lines of action, and finally teleported him to Palanthas, using one of the smaller portals prepared by Fistandantilus: an invaluable collection of twelve teleportation circles connected to twelve places scattered throughout Ansalon. 

Maybe Markhus would succeed in his mission, or maybe not. Perhaps he would flee to the opposite side of Krynn - hoping never to see this strange Findandantilus again - or perhaps he would take refuge in the Tower of High-Sorcery of Wayreth, where the stories he had to tell would shock the other wizards. 

In any case, whatever his choice would be, Raistlin was fine with it: his purpose today was just to send Markhus out of Istar. If his plan for the army came to fruition... so much the better. 

*** 

Raistlin was finishing his frugal breakfast when Dalamar entered, dressed in clerical clothes. 

“I’m glad you can eat something,” the dark elf said earnestly. 

Raistlin lowered his gaze. How could someone like him deserve someone like Dalamar? 

“I don’t really have an appetite. Everything I eat tastes like sand these days. But today, we will both need energy.” He looked back at the Silvanesti with inquiring eyes. “Where have you been?” he asked curiously. 

Dalamar gave him a penetrating look: perhaps he was expecting the dry and irritated tone Raistlin had often used in the past few days, and this new, unexpected joviality surprised him. 

“I have reason to believe that a kender is wandering the temple today.” 

Raistlin stayed still, considering the possibilities. Then, after just a few seconds, he shook his head, getting up and leaving his breakfast half-eaten. “We can’t waste energy playing hide and seek with Tasslehoff. There are only a few hours left before the Cataclysm.” 

“I agree. I did some exploring to see if by chance he had been captured by conventional means by the Temple guards, but I agree, it’s not wise to waste our magical energies on him,” said the dark elf, approaching the table and grabbing a biscuit. “If nothing else, the good news is that by evening the Cataclysm will have solved the problem represented by a dangerous time-traveler kender on the loose. He won’t have time to get away from Istar.” 

“This is true.” Raistlin murmured, thoughtful. He looked at the hearth and sighed. What twisted part of his soul made him feel sorry for the kender’s death after all that had happened? He owed him nothing. Indeed, because of him, a priceless magical artifact had been destroyed! 

Raistlin took his second thoughts and the memories of his youth in Solace and locked them somewhere deep in his heart. It was not the first time that Death was chasing Tas: if it had not been for Raistlin’s intervention, he would have died in the caves of Neraka two years earlier. It was simply time for him to face the consequences of his unnecessary recklessness. 

Raistlin flinched when Dalamar put a hand on his elbow: he hadn’t even noticed the dark elf approaching. 

“Raistlin, truly, I tried to rescue him. Now we must give him up for lost,” the Silvanesti said in a low voice, looking intently at him, piercing the darkness of Raistlin’s soul with those bright gray eyes. 

Raistlin blinked: he hadn’t realized how much he had left his thoughts unattended, easily readable by the dark elf’s mercurial mind. 

“It’s the end he deserves,” he hissed harshly. “Crushed like the insignificant louse he is!” 

He turned abruptly to walk away, but Dalamar grabbed him and hugged him, holding him tight in his arms, then placing his hands on his shoulders and staring intently at him, their faces close. 

“It will go all right today. I am here for you,” he said in a clear and sincere voice, the slightest hint of his native accent in his words. “We are together. And that’s all that matters, for better or for worse.”

“I know,” Raistlin replied quietly, almost stunned by the sudden rush of emotion. It was like being illuminated by a beacon so bright it hurt the eyes of those looking at it.

“Then _believe_ it,” Dalamar commanded, shaking him slightly. “Know it!”

Raistlin narrowed his eyes, looking at him with annoyance. He did! Indeed he would’ve never embarked on such a risky venture if he hadn’t... 

Dalamar interrupted his thoughts by leaning forward, closing his eyes, and claiming his mouth in a gentle kiss. His tongue caressed Raistlin’s lips before demanding entry, the elf’s hands moving to Raistlin’s face to caress him and hold him close.

In these weeks of apocalyptic events, they had rarely touched, so dark was the cloud that surrounded Raistlin’s soul. While the anger of the gods stole his sleep, Raistlin had longed to be able to crawl into the elf’s bed in search of comfort, and at the same time, he had been tormented by nausea at the thought of touching another living being. 

Now, with the elf’s fresh lips on his, Raistlin felt foolish. All his problems ceased to exist for a moment, replaced by the lovely peace of that ephemeral present, in which he returned that kiss with gentle passion. That kiss soothed away his sadness and worry.

They drew apart to catch their breath. Nestling closer, wrapped in Dalamar’s warmth, Raistlin listened to the elf’s rapid heartbeat.

Nauseating memories tried to claw into his brain. He saw the elf with an expression of hatred, entering his study in Palanthas. _“Shalafi” Dalamar spat._

“ _Shalafi_...” Dalamar, the real one, spoke the word aloud in such a sinful tone as to make the hair on Raistlin’s arms stand up. “To save us, you will have to focus exclusively on us, and our future together,” the elf whispered, returning to kiss him on the lips and then on the crown of his head. 

“My _shalori_ ,” coughed Raistlin, a lump in his throat, as he grasped the white robes and held him tightly. A bubble of loneliness rose in Raistlin’s chest and vanished silently, dissolving into nothing.

In its place, Raistlin put the memory of that moment, of that embrace, of all the physical, mental, and emotional sensations of that short minute and carefully placed it within his heart, caressing it with his magic as an oyster does with its pearl.

_Greenedera_

______

Next chapter: High noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness and @isabellemajere for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry. Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal".  
> \---


	17. High noon

Raistlin entered the room where the circle for the Timespin spell had been carefully prepared. Every rune was painstakingly painted; every glyph accurately checked. The real question was, would it work? 

_Stop it,_ he chided himself. _You can’t let your doubts eat you up like that. Dalamar is right: I must concentrate on my success, not on my failure - these are words I spoke myself years ago. And if I fail, we will die, here and now and once for all._

 _Don’t be so melodramatic, Dalamar’s_ mental voice interrupted him. _If the Timespin spell doesn’t work, it’s not as if we’ll stay here and let ourselves be roasted by the mountain of fire._

 _Ah, no?_ Raistlin asked, amused.

Of course not _. We’ll simply teleport away.  
_

The thought was crisp and confident. Raistlin could almost see, through the dark elf’s eyes and mind, the white corridors that he was crossing, making his way through the crowd that was gathering for the Great Assembly. 

_Dalamar, if the Timespin Spell doesn’t work, I won’t have enough strength to teleport us down the street. And you damn well know it._

Leave all that to me _. I’ve already prepared everything: we’ll go to Palanthas. Of course, not the Palanthas of the future, but we can handle the details later, once we’re safely away._

Raistlin frowned at the haughty words of the Silvanesti. Was Dalamar able to cast such a spell? Indeed, he had made incredible progress in the last few weeks, but the teleportation spell should still have been well beyond his abilities. 

_I set up the Black Blood Ritual,_ revealed the dark elf.

Understanding dawned in Raistlin’s mind. _Did you?_

 _Yes. I prepared our arrival point at Palanthas one week ago, and tonight I tested it again_ , Dalamar explained in a false detached tone: there was a tinge of pride evident in his thoughts - and it was well-deserved. Raistlin smiled despite himself at the cruel cunning of the dark elf. 

The “Black Blood Ritual” indeed required much less magical power and a lower level of knowledge than more advanced forms of teleportation: in return, it needed many days of preparation; the definition of an exact arrival point; and something like two human hearts (taken from victims sacrificed in a specific way) for every day that the ritual remained potentially active and ready to connect the two predefined points.

 _You kept busy while I was sick._

_Can you blame me?_

_Of course not. It’s just... pointless. I have already told you: nothing will change, destiny is like a river, and…_

_Nuitari damn it!_ _I do not intend to give up now,_ Dalamar exclaimed. _We have come this far. Even if I could only buy us a few days, wouldn’t it be worth it?_

Raistlin felt his emotions swirl and hurried to shove them down into the furthest corner of his heart. Now – today - he needed to be as calm and rational as possible. 

_So, can you cast the Black Blood teleportation at any time?_ He asked curtly. 

Yes. 

_Wasn’t there a designated victim to sacrifice during the casting of the spell, or something like that? You’re not thinking of using Crysania, aren’t you?_

_As much as the idea would amuse me, I preferred not to take risks. I prepared a victim in the room for the ritual._

Raistlin briefly wondered how he had failed to notice something like that with the magical senses inherited from Fistandantilus.

 _Your student learns fast, Shalafi. The room is cloaked._

_Indeed,_ Raistlin answered evenly _. All right. But don’t try anything until I specifically say…_

_Of course._

_Swear it, Dalamar! You’ve already withheld enough damn information from me._

_I didn’t hide anything from you. Let’s just say we’ve hardly seen each other these days, and I haven’t had a chance to talk about it yet._

_Like now?_

_That’s right. Ah, I’ve arrived in the Great Hall. I must look for Crysania. I’ll let you know as soon as the Kingpriest starts his speech._

Raistlin diverted his attention from Dalamar’s mind. He left the laboratory and began to check all the adjacent rooms. 

Finally, in an unmarked closet, he found Dalamar’s ritual. The penetrating smell of blood, salt, and entrails assailed him while, in the light of the staff of Magius, he observed the arcane symbols painted on the floor and the walls. 

Neither Raistlin nor Fistandantilus had ever been overly interested in the Black Blood ritual, a particularly cumbersome necromantic process, quite wasteful in terms of human lives (and the effort needed to procure them). Hence, the sorcerer was not familiar with the details of the ritual. 

However, it all seemed very neat and organized in its gruesome details. A young woman in tattered clothes lay in a corner, sunk in a deep sleep. A dagger was ready a short distance away. 

Dalamar had thought of everything, and he certainly had no scruples in doing what was needed to achieve his goal: it wouldn’t take long for him to climb the heights of real power. 

Raistlin didn’t touch anything. He left the room, shut the door behind him, and returned to the laboratory where he began the long chant to awaken the Timespin spell. 

*** 

As the Kingpriest began his most significant and final speech, Lady Crysania sat in the front row; her hands joined in prayer. 

Her hair was disheveled and her clothes were wrinkled: her nights had been turbulent, haunted by violent, erotic and dark dreams prepared by Dalamar, so that her waking state was now haunted by confusion and hallucinations. 

Even now, the dark elf was in her mind and continued unceasingly to whisper perverse thoughts, theological doubts, and disturbing images of an impossible future together with a certain black wizard. Meanwhile, he curiously observed the scene around him. After all, he was about to witness one of the most critical moments in history. The Kingpriest was in the center of the hall on a raised dais and proclaimed his speech with a resounding voice. 

“All heavenly omens agree, 

the time for purification has come! 

I give you one last chance – 

stand under the banner of true faith 

and you’ll be saved! 

By the will of the Creator 

I will eliminate the impure races. 

In my new design their place 

is on the pages of legends! 

Fair Istar, rise from your knees! 

Hail Paladine, our faith is pure!”

 _We leave in twenty minutes,_ whispered Raistlin into his mind. The thoughts of his companion were thorny, full of tension and determined concentration. Dalamar took a deep breath. Meanwhile, the Kingpriest continued speaking. 

“Our heavenly Father, You know, 

we do not lead this mass in vain! 

The flame of Your altar 

will spill over the world like dawn! 

Let those who are not with us burn in fire! 

It is time to put an end 

to the Kingdom of Darkness!” 

The floor began to tremble; the clerics and the faithful cried in fear, rose to their feet and began to run away. In a matter of seconds, a mass of bodies wedged near the two exits. At the top of his pulpit, the Kingpriest shone with light and awaited the gods’ answer. 

Dalamar moved away, walking close to the wall, keeping an eye on his prey and filling her thoughts with the imitation of Raistlin’s warm mental voice. 

_Crysania…_

“Raistlin?” she called out loud, looking around in the general chaos, without finding the man. 

_Crysania, it is time._

“Raistlin, wait for me!” 

Dalamar kept her in a delicate state of semi-intoxication, numbing her senses and continuing to call her. The priestess crossed the room, shoving away the fugitives, without realizing the situation, without hearing any voice other than the one in her mind. 

Like a shepherd with a lamb or a herdsman with a cow for slaughter, Dalamar began leading Crysania to the secret laboratory of Fistandantilus. 

The two Black Robes had agreed that creating the Circle of the Timespin Spell in Fistandantilus’s apartment would have been too dangerous since it was very close to the Temple’s inhabited area. Besides, the underground laboratory was undoubtedly more secure from the disaster predicted for that fateful day: not only because it was in the depths of the earth but also because of the powerful spells that protected that place. 

The walls were shaking, and occasionally the floor itself trembled; the pavement jumped and cracked. From the depths of the walls came earsplitting crashes and roars. Clouds of dust and rubble sometimes fell from the ceiling, caused likely by the collapse of the upper floors. 

Despite himself, Dalamar was on edge. There were too many variables: it was challenging to keep the priestess wrapped in the enchantment while at the same time leading her in the right direction. Fugitives and desperate people repeatedly bumped into them, pushing and shoving while fleeing to safety. 

_No!_ The elf was thrown to the ground when a column fell with a boom, and two people tripped on him. The body of a stout cleric with a stinking breath pinned him against a wall, and Dalamar felt the control of his magic slip from his mind, the turmoil disturbing his concentration. 

Thirty feet ahead, Crysania was now looking around in terror, suddenly catapulted into awareness of the events around her, but without understanding them, perhaps thinking it was some strange nightmare. 

Then Dalamar felt another confident presence slip into his mind, taking firm control of the priestess’s thoughts. 

_I’m here,_ Raistlin whispered. I’ll _take care of Crysania now. Be careful. Try to make your way here without injury._

_The Timespin Spell? Caramon? Your preparations?,_ Dalamar asked frantically. 

_Everything is taken care of. I summoned Caramon an hour ago, and I completed the preliminary rituals. Come on, hurry,_ shalori _._

_Thank you,_ Shalafi _._

Dalamar pushed away the stout cleric and hurried to his feet. He took a deep breath and coughed immediately afterward due to the dust floating everywhere. 

Nearby, Crysania now showed a serene expression, a calm smile on her lips. She turned and strolled along the corridor, the dark elf at tailing her. 

*** 

A few days earlier, Dalamar had warned Raistlin that mistreating Caramon wasn’t a good idea. 

“If you want to kill him, just do that,” he had told him. “But if you want to bring him with you into the future, you have to be on good terms with him.” 

Of course, Raistlin hadn’t listened: In those days before the Cataclysm, he had never listened. 

The last time that Dalamar had checked on Caramon through the scrying bowl, the human was being forced to fight in the Arena against his own friends. Dalamar knew that Raistlin would summon Caramon to the laboratory that day, as would for Crysania. However, the mage would surely spend less care and attention in modulating the mental compulsion for him.

What Dalamar didn’t know was that Caramon was standing in the same corridor crowded with people at that very moment - right behind him.

Caramon, tired and wounded after his last fight in the Arena, had been finally able to escape and, dodging the panicked people and the destruction that was already in the streets of Istar, had reached the Temple. He heard only in part the call of his brother: in reality, it was a completely different intent that guided him. 

The man had witnessed scenes of terrible violence in the streets - people crushed under collapsed buildings, children trampled to death by panicked adults, animals out of control, screaming in pain and terror. All this had partially alienated him from his surroundings. His heart was locked in a wooden chest, and his mind was focused only on simple thoughts and mechanical actions. 

His sole purpose was to join his brother, confront him, and understand why Raistlin had betrayed Caramon by putting him in that untenable situation in the Arena. He had lied to him, had abused him – Caramon knew that he had to confront his brother and somehow find a solution to change him, to redeem him. 

So, when amid the chaotic corridor of the Temple Caramon spotted none other than Dalamar, the reaction of the man was instinctive. No reasoning was involved, just two conclusions. 

The dark elf had corrupted Raistlin again. 

The dark elf had to disappear so that Raistlin would come to his senses. 

Caramon clenched his fists. He made his way through the crowd until he was behind Dalamar. Then, he attacked. 

*** 

The Temple shook, loud cries arose. A commotion sounded behind Dalamar. 

The dark elf, fearing that another statue was about to collapse, leaped forward. He was going to look over his shoulder when he was hit in the back by a blow so hard it slammed him against a wall. Behind him, someone grunted. 

_That hit was directed at my head…?_ Dalamar thought, thoroughly confused. His forehead had bumped painfully against the wall, blurring his vision for a moment. The elf gasped, overwhelmed with pain, and turned - only to see Caramon towering over him. The big man, dressed as a gladiator, was covered with clotted blood and his expression was grim and frustrated as he reached out and grabbed Dalamar by the throat. 

Around them, people screamed and panicked, trapped between the crowd pushing from behind and the menacing figure of the warrior standing at the center of the corridor. 

_I’m about to die_ , Dalamar realized bewilderedly. He had seen Caramon snap the neck of much larger enemies than him with just one hand. He tried to react with a kick or a spell, but he didn’t have the time, because the human instead lifted him off the ground, his fingers digging painfully into Dalamar’s windpipe, and pinned him against the wall.

“You! You must get out of our lives!” he bellowed, a nasty expression of hatred on his face. “Get out of here! Do you understand? Stay away from my brother!” 

Someone shouted, and a temple guard - disheveled and ragged, but still duty-bound - came out of the crowd and tried to stun Caramon with a punch. 

He could have tried to stun a boulder. The gladiator let go of Dalamar and seized the soldier, lifting him like a child. The elf regained his feet, unsure on his legs and short of breath. With the force of despair, he tried to back away, still too numb with pain and shock to react differently. He tried desperately to think of a spell. 

That was a problem. Dalamar had already used a rather powerful spell – the glamour on Crysania - and still intended to set aside the necessary energies to cast the Black Blood Ritual, just in case. That drastically reduced the number of spells he could use. On top of that, his pain made the elegant words of magic elude his mind. 

The guard was struggling in vain in the grip of Caramon, who had suddenly turned towards Dalamar. 

“You,” he rumbled, glowering at the elf. “You ruined my brother! I won’t let you finish what you started, you slimy whore!” The warrior threw the distressed guard at the dark elf.

Dalamar easily dodged the clumsy launch. The guard crashed into the wall and fell to the ground amid the general horror of the witnesses. Caramon was drawing his sword. 

The elf moved his fingers in a broad gesture. “ _Shirki muan_!” 

The sword of Caramon stuck to a few inches from the elf’s outstretched hands. 

“Magic!” someone shouted. 

“Witchcraft!” exclaimed someone else. 

“The wizards are attacking the Temple!” In the general chaos, the idea fueled panic. 

_Wait till they see how I’m going to slit his throat,_ thought Dalamar, looking for his dagger. Caramon stared at him, paralyzed halfway through his attack. 

But before Dalamar could slaughter the man, a piercing pain pierced his back. He felt a blade distinctly plunging cruelly into his body, slipping on his left clavicle, on his ribs, and cutting the tender flesh of his side. The agony was blinding. 

Dalamar gasped, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw another guard of the Temple, a big man almost seven feet tall, who drew back his sword to strike again. All around it was a deafening cacophony of shouts - “Wizard!”, “Dark Magic,” “Dark elf,” “He conjured the earthquake.” 

Gritting his teeth against the excruciating pain and the ugly sensation of blood spilling down his side, the Silvanesti grabbed a component from a pouch and gestured, hissing the words of magic. The ecstasy of magic numbed his pain, then flames spread like a red-hot fan in front of him, consuming the guard and causing the onlookers to fall back, screaming. 

Seeing an opening, Dalamar dashed forward, limping, abandoning Caramon still paralyzed and several wounded witnesses writhing in agony on the floor. 

Dalamar slipped into a small side corridor, hid behind a statue, and slumped down with a groan, pressing a hand to his side. 

The blood gushed hot, soaking the white robes and leaking down his leg. A warm trickle ran down his back too. He tried to catch his breath and control his pain. 

The ground trembled again, new grinding sounds echoed, followed by a cacophony of screams. Laboriously, Dalamar began to head toward the place where he had last seen Crysania, making a detour in less trafficked halls. 

Soon after, some people noticed him, covered in blood as he was, but nobody recognized or stopped him. He was not the only wounded one around, and at that moment, each one was thinking to save his own skin. 

Dalamar wearily looked around. 

A female cry interrupted the elf’s search. He spotted Crysania amid chaos. 

The priestess was about sixty feet ahead, in the corner of the corridor obscured by a cloud of dust that hovered in the air. Another cleric, dressed in a coat richly adorned – wasn’t he the Revered Quarath? - was holding her back, shouting something. 

_Damn,_ thought Dalamar, and limped in that direction, shoving away dozens of people. 

The pain in his back and side was sharp and worrying, and he felt his clothes getting wetter and wetter with blood. The Bloodstone, however powerful, was useless at times like this - until he had time to charge it, at least. The artifact had been briefly activated when Dalamar had been stabbed, but it hadn’t been charged enough to heal him from such a wound.

The dark elf reached behind Quarath and, without hesitation, stabbed him in the small of his back, then shoved his body away into the dusty fog. 

Crysania widened her eyes, but Raistlin’s domination spell had not lost its hold, for her gaze was still dazed. She turned and ran in the right direction. 

Swearing softly, Dalamar picked up a white cloak from the floor and threw it on himself to cover his blood-streaked robes – Sweet Nuitari how starkly the blood showed on white. The woman was moving away quickly, so the dark elf had to focus on the difficult task putting one foot in front of the other. 

He walked as quickly as he could, unaware of the small trail of sporadic bloody footprints he was leaving behind. 

*** 

They passed through increasingly deserted corridors and secret doors that so far had been known only to Raistlin and Dalamar. 

The dark elf lagged behind Crysania further and further: he felt lightheaded and thirsty – a sign that the blood loss was severe. 

Dalamar stopped in the middle of a chapel and wasted precious minutes tearing the hem of his robes in a rough strip. His face contracted in pain while he clumsily wrapped the wound on his side. The upper part of the injury, from shoulder blade to ribcage, was utterly out of his reach, so he ignored it. 

_Raistlin doesn’t have to find out about Caramon’s actions! Not now, at least,_ Dalamar thought incoherently and dazedly. _All his concentration is necessary for the imminent spell._

The sorcerer shut down the barriers of his mind, to prevent Raistlin from telepathically grasping the gravity of the latest events. 

Finally, he reached the basement entrance and limped down the winding stairs, cursing each step. As he descended, the roar of the earthquake and the howling of the dying calmed down, turning into a distant, tragic buzz. 

The familiar chill of the dungeon silently welcomed him, and Dalamar shook his head for the absurd sense of security that the place gave him. For some months, it had been a safe refuge and heaven of studying and time with his lover. However, the basement could still become his tomb all too soon. 

As he made his way to the room where Raistlin would be waiting, Dalamar picked up a black cloak from a hook and dropped the white one, which in the meantime had stained with blood in turn. The elf clumsily draped himself in it, hiding his bloody rags. 

_I was worried about saving my energy for the emergency teleportation spell, but at this rate, I risk not having enough blood in my body even to stay upright._

Dalamar, his heart beating fast, headed to the Timespin Spell room. Here, the chanting of the stones welcomed him.

_Greenedera_

______

Next Chapter: Rain of fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness and @isabellemajere for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry. Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal".  
> \---  
> There are quotes from the russian musical here! Check on my profile for the references


	18. Rain of Fire

Raistlin watched Crysania enter the room and released her from his spell. 

The priestess blinked and looked around in a mixture of wonder and disgust. In particular she stared at the rows of jars filled with spell components and at the tapestries with detailed diagrams of humanoid bodies adorning the walls. The woman looked terrible; she resembled a forlorn child in dirty rags.

"Crysania," Raistlin murmured persuasively. "Come, my dear." 

She focused her gaze on the mage. There were tears in her eyes. "Raistlin…” she sobbed. “I am scared… and I don't know where I stand. The temple floor shakes beneath me…" she stopped in her tracks, noticing the glowing circle at her feet. 

"Above us…" she trailed off. 

"Yes," said Raistlin, calm and collected. "The Cataclysm has begun. The earthquake is leveling Istar, and within minutes the mountain of fire will fall on Ansalon.” 

She glanced at her robes covered in dust, unable to remember the recent events. Then she looked at Raistlin again and her eyes lit with a fascination that - this time - was not magical in nature. She slowly and solemnly entered the circle of the Timespin. 

"If only I could keep a small fragment of faith in this hour..." she murmured with a desolate voice, then shook her head, glancing away to hide her sad expression. "You are right. Let's get out of here."

"Yes. Come to me, Crysania," the archmage beckoned. 

Crysania approached, hesitating, arriving close enough to Raistlin for him to smell the sweet scent of her hair. The woman looked up, meeting his eyes, and raised a hand to caress his cheek. He stood still; this was not the time to push her away.

"This place is so so far from the surface,” she whispered. “Did that other wizard, the one you defeated, build it?" 

Raistlin raised an eyebrow. "That’s right. He did. Old Fistandantilus dug his den with his magic, like a worm in the earth. He added dozens of rooms, all in the depths of the Temple of Istar." 

Crysania’s fingers played with a lock of the wizard’s hair. "Why is there so much silence? Shouldn't we still hear the earthquake?" 

"This place is protected by dozens of powerful spells,” answered the mage, barely refraining from pulling away. “It will be the last place of Istar to fall. However, it will fall." 

"He must have been a powerful wizard indeed," she murmured, laying a hand on Raistlin's chest as if to comfort him. 

Raistlin tightened his jaw as unpleasant memories, and the more recent and equally nasty nightmares struggled to attract his attention. With determination, he pushed them back down. 

"I have defeated him," he replied, whispering. “That evil man is dead now." 

"The evil devours itself," Crysania murmured. "But if you will listen to my words, we can rise together and transcend all this folly…" She parted her lips. The priestess was about to lean toward the wizard to kiss him when the sudden entrance of Dalamar saved the situation. 

"Sorry for the delay," breathed the dark elf, wrapping himself better in a heavy black cloak. Raistlin narrowed his eyes, intrigued by his demeanor and clothing. _Did he stop by his rooms to retrieve something?_

"Come, apprentice," replied the archmage in a formal tone. "We'll be leaving very soon. Come here in the circle, next to us." 

Dalamar had a grim and weary expression on his thin face. Raistlin was not sure if he was concerned about the outcome of the Timespin spell, or if he was just tense for Crysania proximity – now the woman was molded to Raistlin's chest like a barnacle. At least the Silvanesti had warded his mind, raising mental barriers and sparing Raistlin his jealousy. 

Dalamar stood beside Raistlin now, and whispered with him the syllables of the complex formula of the final stage of the spell, lending him his strength. 

Crysania had released Raistlin and was hugging herself, eyes closed, praying in a low voice. "Forgive us, Lord! Your wrath is righteous - But who do we follow if the shepherd is blind? And who will lead on if there is no shepherd…" 

The stones came to life and began to repeat the same syllables along with the wizards, raising their voices in a chilling inhuman symphony. 

_Perfect, everything is perfect. Now, only one person is still missing_ , thought Raistlin.

As if summoned, Caramon entered the room. The gladiator armor was encrusted with blood and dust, giving him a menacing appearance. 

Holding his sword out toward the people in the room, he stepped forth and regarded the wizards and the priestess wide-eyed, with an angry and crazed look.

Crysania had apparently never seen that gloomy, brutal, and deadly expression on the usually jovial face of Caramon. She gasped - her prayer forgotten - clinging to Raistlin's robes and looking at the warrior with horror. Dalamar had frozen like a black and white marble statue: standing still, he continued to sing the syllables of the spell, over and over

"You summoned me," said Caramon in a low voice, like a growl. "Here I am. I survived the ordeal you put me through in the Arena, just as you survived your Test of High Sorcery. You changed then. But I've changed too, Raist." 

Raistlin mentally rolled his eyes, although externally, he kept calm. Gripping the Staff of Magius more tightly, he watched his twin warily.

"I understand. You're still expecting an explanation, aren't you?" the archmage asked in a low voice. 

Raistlin wound the arm holding the Staff of Magius around Crysania's shoulders, while he flattened the page of the book on the stand in front of him with the other. 

Caramon angrily swept everything off a little table with a crash. "Raist, how could you do that to me?" he boomed.

"Later, my brother," Raistlin answered in a flat, dismissive voice. "Now, get inside the circle and stay put." 

"That worm you carry around with you!" Caramon bellowed, "he corrupted you, Raist! Years ago, you would never have treated me like this! We were as one, you and I…" 

Out of the corner of his eye, Raistlin saw Dalamar shift, preparing to spring or to cast a spell in defense of them. Very well. 

"My brother," Raistlin said, narrowing his eyes, “Istar's difficult circumstances are long past. The city is dying. We have an important journey ahead of us, and as you can see, we are waiting for you. Where we are going, this lady and I will need a bodyguard we can trust blindly."

Caramon took a step forward, without lowering his sword. "No, Raist. I will not allow you to continue on this path. Leave that scum of an elf here. I will make sure that you return to be the good brother you were." 

Raistlin slowly raised an eyebrow, piercing Caramon with a dismissive glare. "Same old story..." he said, hoping that Dalamar had the sense to remain silent and let him handle the situation. He deliberately looked away from his twin to regard the book in front of him. "Trust me, my brother. Humor me." 

Caramon took another step forward. 

"Raistlin!" cried Crysania, curling against his chest. Unintentionally, the two sorcerers had positioned themselves in such a way that to reach Dalamar Caramon would first have to shove away the priestess and Raistlin, his path on the other side blocked by a massive library. 

" _I said,_ " Raistlin’s soft voice flicked like a whip. He looked up and nailed his twin with his coldest stare. "...that you are wrong, my brother. The situation is fully under my control, although it may be beyond your understanding. The explanations will come in due time, but certainly not now." 

"Out of my way, Raist," choked Caramon, obviously in the grip of a strong emotion. 

"No, Caramon," the archmage snapped. "Now enter the damn circle and stand still, we're leaving." 

"I understand perfectly!" Caramon roared, and suddenly he rose even taller, more menacing, and a glimmer of intelligence shone in his beady eyes. "It's too late, isn't it, Raist? You're contaminated by his filth now! But I have a solution!" cried the big man, his eyes now devoid of any spark of civilization. 

"You thickhead! If you kill Dalamar and me, not only would you condemn yourself to die under the mountain of fire that is descending on Istar," pointed out Raistlin coldly, standing still but growing tenser. "There is someone else who would die. One innocent life," he added, giving a little shake to Crysania's shoulder. While he was putting on this little show for the sake of his twin, he could at least make sure he got the most out of it since Crysania was watching him. She stood taller, winded an arm around Raistlin's waist, and leveled a hard look on Caramon. 

"Ah! I see! I'm so stupid! "Caramon growled. 

"Everything's as usual…" Raistlin commented caustically. 

Caramon's stance was growing more and more menacing. "Don't' worry, my brother. I won't be a nuisance to you anymore." 

Raistlin raised his chin. "Well, too bad. Here I thought you'd help me." 

Caramon looked at Crysania, held in Raistlin's arms, and hesitated. Was he thinking about how the love of the priestess would redeem his twin? He blinked, his eyes glistening with withheld tears. This situation had brought out the worst in Caramon and the man, in his idiocy, perhaps was thinking that once removed Dalamar, Raistlin would change? 

"No, Raist. That's where you're wrong," Caramon replied sadly, letting his voice drop low. "I know you can't cast any more spells now; this time-travel one is too big, isn't it? We don't all have to die. Just one of us!" 

The warrior leaped forward, and Raistlin realized too late that he was jumping to Dalamar. In a few moments, Caramon would trample Raistlin and Crysania and swing his sword at the elf. 

_In the name of the Abyss!_ Raistlin realized - with a sudden plunge in his heart - that he had miscalculated his brother's reaction. Dalamar had been right; he should have killed the man when he had the chance. 

And Caramon, of course, was right in one point: Raistlin could not intervene with his magic without compromising the Timespin spell. The stones were now singing a sharp howl of triumph while the single words of the formula were lost in the rapid pace of the rhythm. 

Raistlin turned his head to Dalamar, expecting the elf to be already casting a spell to neutralize his brother. Countless times in the past, the elf had watched his back with his battle magic. Now the archmage didn't care if the dark elf would strike to stun or to kill. But Raistlin saw with horror that Dalamar was bent forward, barely holding himself upright, his face ashen, his lips stained with blood. He seemed about to fall to the ground on his own. The black cloak had opened, revealing his bloody white robes, the sight giving Raistlin a sinking feeling. _Dalamar is injured? Why he didn't tell me?_

The mage clenched his jaw. _To the Abyss the Timespin_ , he thought, letting go of Crysania and raising the Staff of Magius in a two-handed grip, ready to use it to deflect Caramon's blow. 

But Crysania was faster. Seeing Raistlin - the object of her obsession - threatened, the woman stepped forward and screamed violently, invoking Paladine and reaching out her hand, her fingers arched like claws. The sacred medallion around her neck gave a flash of blinding white light. 

Screaming, Caramon dropped his sword and covered his eyes with his hands. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious. 

A moment later, an explosion shook the protection spells of the dungeon, and the ceiling began to crack as trails of dust suddenly came down from above. It was late... very late, Raistlin realized. Caramon's gigantic stupidity – and his incorrect assessment of the situation - had maybe condemned them all. 

_I must complete the TImespin spell, soon!_ He could feel the magic slither from his grasp. He was losing control... 

Raistlin gripped the Staff tighter then lurched forward, hugging both Crysania and Dalamar to his chest. Ignoring the gestures required by the complex spell, he shouted the final words of the spell as quickly as possible, his voice shrill but firm. He used his own magic, the magic inherited by Fistandantilus and the magic he didn't have he ripped from the very walls of the enchanted dungeon. The energy flowed through his veins, the ecstasy so violent it was unbearably painful.

A painful jolt shook his frail frame and the massive building at the same time. His black robes whipped around him while a violent whirlwind rose inside the room. 

The song of the stones changed in tone, the harmony broke in a dissonant series of voices while the power of the spell made them tremble and split. 

Raistlin could almost feel it as the magnificent Temple collapsed tens of feet above them and plunged on top of the dungeon, pushing it even deeper into the depths of the earth and smashing it like a melon under a rock. 

His voice shrieked as he tore from the ether the power to distort reality and his body burned with the terrible heat of magic that was consuming him. 

With a shiver of triumph, the diamond dust circle erupted with brilliant light, and as Raistlin uttered the last syllable of the ritual, he felt swept away from the current like a leaf fallen into a river. 

While a second red sun appeared in the sky and quickly became larger and larger, neither Raistlin nor Dalamar noticed the presence of the little kender curled up on the threshold of the laboratory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry. Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal".  
> \---  
> There are quotes from the russian musical here! Check on my profile for the references


	19. Left behind

Tas hadn’t found the courage to tell Caramon the truth after he had broken the Device of Time Journeying. Yes, he had inadvertently broken priceless items in the past, such as that dragon orb in Sancrist. Nevertheless, all things considered, since Caramon kept saying that he would soon leave with Raistlin with another time-travel spell, the kender felt that Caramon didn’t need to know _all_ the latest facts (for his own good, it was not necessary to worry him). Also, when the Device had fallen to the ground and shattered, Raistlin’s face had been peculiar indeed. Anyone else would have said it was frightening. Tas was practically doing Caramon a favor, keeping him in ignorance. So the kender had told Caramon that he had hidden the Device in a safe place. 

In those days, as the Cataclysm approached, the uncomfortable question of how to get home before becoming an omelet grew ever more important. . Would Raistlin allow him to come along after all the trouble he had caused? He and Dalamar had both seemed pretty upset.

So Tas had strolled around Istar for some time. After all, if the city was going to be destroyed, _someone_ would have to explore its beauties to tell everyone of its lost glory.

Tasslehoff had been astounded by the sudden determination with which the guards of Istar - not to mention the guards of the Temple – were suddenly so intent on catching every single kender in the city. None of them was fast, smart, or clever enough to arrest Tas, of course, but he didn’t deserve such treatment! The truth – that Raistlin was desperately trying to find the Device -- never crossed Tasslehoff ‘s mind. 

One day Tasslehoff was enjoying himself by looking around the market when he turned a corner and found a guard who was clutching a sack to his chest. Two short and thin legs wrapped in yellow trousers emerged from the sack. 

The guard gave a rather abrupt and rude shake to the prisoner, whose shrill cries were muffled by the heavy cloth of the sack. Upon witnessing the scene Tas realized that a small part of him was somewhat itchy: not like when a mosquito has just bitten you, and you want to scratch, but like when the mosquito is biting you _right now_ , and you see it there on your arm, and you feel the irrepressible urge to slap it. To act. He just couldn’t stand still, so he unsheathed his dagger and used it to prick the guard’s backside - the guard probably hadn’t even caught the mosquito metaphor - and suddenly the prisoner was free. 

Among the soldier’s curses, Tas guided the two-legged sack to the nearest alley and then released its content. 

“But you don’t look like a kender at all!” exclaimed Tas when he regarded the former prisoner. 

“Of course not, I’m a gnome!” the other said indignantly. He was as tall as Tas, but his facial traits were definitely different: he had a flat face with big eyes and a short nose, prominent cheekbones, and a sharp chin. He wore the typical gnomish clothing, too: a leather apron, a cotton shirt, trousers with many pockets, and a belt containing a multitude of tools. 

“I bet you’re a gnome,” Tas chirped at the same time, loosening the ties of the robe holding the prisoner’s hands. “You know, I’ve been to Mount Nevermind. I’ve known a lot of gnomes, and one of them even studied my hoopak!”

Then the guard suddenly turned the corner so Tas sprinted, dragging the gnome along. 

For a few frantic minutes, the two ran at breakneck speed through the streets of the market, until they lost their pursuers among the stalls and the confusion. Eventually, they hid in a warehouse, where they caught their breath. 

“Thank you,” gasped the gnome, bent down with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. 

“You’re welcome!” breathed Tas, “But why did the guards arrest you?”

The gnome collapsed. “They thought I was a kender.”

“What!?” Tas was offended. Looking at the features of the gnome’s face and the distinct absence of bags and pouches, how by Reorx’s beard could his new friend be mistaken for a kender? Even a distracted observer would surely notice the difference! 

“I tried to explain just that, but they refused to listen!” said the gnome sadly. 

“I understand. Well, I guess... I guess it doesn’t really matter,” muttered Tas, suddenly remembering that explaining the misunderstanding to the guards would not have served much since they would be - how to say - all dead all too soon. He decided to change the subject. 

“By the way, what’s your name? I am Tasslehoff Burrfoot.” 

“Oh,” said the other, frowning. “Nice to meet you. For all those who are not gnomes, I call myself Gnimsh.” 

They shook hands. “What are you doing here at Istar? You know, you’re the first gnome I’ve met here. That may explain why the guards mistook you for a kender.” 

“Ah... indeed, my people do not venture out of our homeland,” answered Gnimsh, sitting more comfortably, taking off the glasses and starting to clean them. “You see, I decided to challenge our laws and come here to Istar to present my great invention to the King-Priest in person!” 

“Ahem...” Tas said, “from what I’ve heard, he might not be the kind of person who listens much...” 

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not talking about some gigantic and complex invention typical of my people – since you visited my homeland, you know what I’m talking about. You see, I have a gift.” Increasingly agitated and excited, Gnimsh had begun to speak faster and faster, running his words together. “I have the gift of crafting inventions and devices that actually work! On the first try! In truth, my people...” he trailed off and bowed his head. “My people exiled me. They say there is something wrong with me, that I don’t fit the true philosophy of the inventor. You can’t really live your life trying to accomplish your family’s life quest if you just achieve it. What would you leave behind?” 

“Ehm…” tried to say Tas, but Gnimsh interrupted him. 

“And so, you understand, since I have great skills and excellent ability, I thought it better that I prove myself away from my people. This way, they can continue their life quests without me ruining their beliefs, but I feel like I can do more, and I could create many things and since Istar is the most important city of Ansalon...” 

“I have something to fix,” Tas interrupted hurriedly. Feeling that he had nothing to lose, Tasslehoff took out the bag containing the pieces of the Device. “Will you give it a try?” 

The gnome, seeing the sparkling pieces, widened his eyes. His mouth dropped open in amazement. 

In response to the stunned silence of the other, Tas hastened to intervene. “It’s a nice thing, you know, even if it is in bad shape right now... it’s for time travel.” 

“You’re joking, right?” said Gnimsh in a thin voice. 

“No, no! Listen to me, now I’ll tell you the most incredible tale... “ 

*** 

The two spent all afternoon in that stifling and stuffy warehouse while the kender narrated - perhaps not too linearly - his fantastic story. 

The eyes of the gnome were sparkling with joy. While Tas spoke, Gnimsh turned over and over the different parts of the Device between his nimble brown fingers, studying each piece with reverence. 

While Tas was finishing his account about the problematic event during which he had inadvertently broken the Device (and the one about the Dragon Orb), Gnimsh was already starting to sort the pieces by shape. 

“You ... could you really fix it?” inquired Tasslehoff, hopefully. 

“I think so. May I try?” asked the other enthusiastically. 

“Sure! That’s what I’m asking you!” Tas replied relieved. Maybe he could still save the day! 

“Being able to work on something so wonderful...” murmured Gnimsh, awed. “But I need time...” 

“Er... this may be the only thing we don’t have... remember what I said? Cataclysm, a mountain of fire, the whole city plunges under the sea ...” 

Silence fell. Gnimsh eventually tore his eyes away from the Device and looked at Tas with a severe and piercing black gaze. “Are you saying you are absolutely certain that all the inhabitants of Istar will die? Under a mountain of fire?” 

“Yes,” said Tas. “It is very sad. And quite urgent.” 

“But ... couldn’t we use this Device to change this thing and prevent the Cataclysm?” 

Tas stared at Gnimsh, mouth gaping. “But... This is the _best_ idea ever!” 

*** 

So, Tas and Gnimsh spent the night in the warehouse. While the gnome muttered and worked, Tas did many brief reconnaissances (trips to find occasional tools the inventor needed - or to borrow particular objects to be disassembled for their components: a lantern, a quarter-inch wrench, a meat roll (they needed to eat, didn’t they?), one sextant, a water bottle and so on. Actually, Gnimsh already possessed a belt full of unusual and fascinating tools, but Tas got carried away by the enthusiasm. 

Meanwhile, Tas also had to plan how to stop the Cataclysm, of course. He came from the future, he knew a lot of things, so it was his job. Being a Hero of the Lances and all, it was even more evident that he had to take the burden of planning on himself. 

When it was about dinner time, Gnimsh interrupted his work and asked him a lot of precise questions about how the device worked - questions so specific that they made Tas slightly uncomfortable: in fact, he wasn’t quite able to answer all of them. 

However he did his best and after Gnimsh had told him about forty times to stick to the facts and not jump into assumptions, Tas had significantly reduced and impoverished his fantastic account of the many journeys through time he had made. He remembered the note, though, and even if it was just half of it, the gnome was extremely excited by it. 

Thanks to that eventually, Gnimsh was satisfied with the information gathered and returned to work. 

“This will be the most important job of my life,” Gnimsh murmured. “A gnome able to repair a magical artifact of inestimable power!” 

“And think about how important you will become when we prevent the Cataclysm and all those deaths, thanks to it!” Tas intervened with a chirping voice. The thank-you part was his favorite. 

The inventor stared at Tas through his thick glasses. 

“How will others know that we have prevented this Cataclysm if the event itself has never happened?” 

“Well,” said Tas, stretching the word while thinking. “Because we’ll tell them!” 

“Mmm...” replied the gnome, concentrating again on the task at hand. “But, more than that, with this artifact - assuming I can repair it in time, even if my current prediction is thirty-two hours necessary, which would be enough assuming we sleep six hours and eat very quickly – we could travel in time. But you said that the gods will throw a mountain of fire on Istar to punish the Kingpriest for something like “a wrong prayer.” If this is true, actually, I don’t understand how traveling in time could fix that event. The most logical thing to do would be to go to the Kingpriest and prevent him from pronouncing the prayer in the first place.” 

Once again, Tas was amazed. Gnimsh was definitely smart. 

“We could... we could ask him politely! Explain to him the terrible consequences of his prayer, and so he could thank us and let it go, and the world would be safe!” Tasslehoff exclaimed, jumping up and down with enthusiasm. 

The gnome was clutching one piece of the Device to his chest, caressing its smooth surface. 

“Well. Maybe I could still try to repair this Device as soon as possible. Just in case we can’t convince the Kingpriest. So, we will have an escape route, should we need it.” 

“Yes, yes, an excellent idea” the kender urged him. “Because, even if we prevent the Cataclysm, I would need it to go home. And you can decide whether to stay here at Istar to accept the honors for the hero who prevented the Cataclysm - even if in that case maybe only the Kingpriest will know that you are telling the truth - or you could go back to the present - which would be the future for you - with me. We will be able to live fantastic adventures together! I will introduce you to Tika, and Tanis, Riverwind and Goldmoon, and I imagine that at some point Raistlin, Caramon, Dalamar, and Crysania too will come back. It will be fantastic because they will learn that thanks to us the Cataclysm never happened, and... “ 

Gnimsh had returned to work feverishly, ignoring the kender, his eyes lit with enthusiasm. In the following hours, he became deaf to Tas’s endless chatter, only occasionally answering in monosyllables. 

*** 

“Follow me, I know the way,” whispered the kender. 

Gnimsh neared hesitantly. He asked the question that had been tormenting him for some time. “You said that you are at home, here in the Temple... that you know a lot of people. So, why are we hiding?” 

“I just don’t want to spend too much time with greetings and hugs,” murmured Tas, “and explaining to the other clerics that I am friends with Crysania and Raistlin, whom they know by another name here, would be too complicated. You have the Device, don’t you?” 

“Obviously,” replied the gnome. 

The Device was in its compact form and resembled a jeweled pendant tied to a chain, so Gnimsh wore it around his neck, hidden under his clothing. But he couldn’t refrain from touching it often, to be sure it hadn’t fallen. 

Gnimsh was not entirely sure that he had really repaired the device, but this doubt had wholly been crushed by the part of himself that blindly trusted his inventions and in his genius. He had never failed in his life: it certainly wouldn’t happen this time either. 

Tas had shown him a quite crumpled sheet, on which the instructions for activating the device had been written, instructions that had been quite useful to the inventor to complete the repair. 

The problem was that the sheet was incomplete: in fact, the lower half was missing, and according to Tas, it had remained in the hands of this “Raistlin” when they had “argued" about who should keep the device. 

Gnimsh suspected that this wizard was the rightful owner of the device, despite Tas’s claims that it was otherwise, and dreaded the possibility of meeting him. 

At the same time, he was stuck: according to Tas’s story, he suspected that the missing piece of the sheet was the “setting diagram”, that is, the pattern that explained how to position the gems. On the gyroscope surrounding the head of the Device, there was a sort of mobile astrolabe where the moons and stars - the gems - had to be represented in a rather specific position to get the device to work in the proper manner: you think of the destination and it will bring you there. 

Well, having some time to do the calculations and above all some basic information (all in all reachable through a year of direct observations of the sky in conditions of significant darkness) and maybe a book with the movements of the celestial spheres in the last hundred years, Gnimsh knew he was perfectly capable of redoing the calculations and interpolating the position on his own. 

But time and resources were lacking. They absolutely had to recover the pattern, and that meant getting closer to the wizard... with all the risks involved. 

Right now, Gnimsh had set up the Device so that - he hoped - if activated, it would take them a few minutes into the future, but somewhere else (somewhere between Palanthas and the Ice Wall, the calculations had necessarily been approximate) but at least it would have saved both their lives if this terrible “Cataclysm” prophesied by the kender had proven real. He was going through the words and the gestures necessary to activate the Device under his breath, imagining the final result with obsessive stubbornness. “Thy time is thy own, (turn the face towards you), Though across it you travel, (move the face plate from right to left), Its expanses you see, (the backplate drops to form a rod and two spheres)…” 

*** 

Tas saw the stone dragon’s head crash to the ground and heard the people screaming in terror. The large statue depicting Paladine in his platinum dragon form had been sculpted of marble, most likely because actual platinum would have cost too much; but the metal would have surely proven stronger and not broken that way at the first earthquake. 

Tasslehoff grabbed Gnimsh and threw them into an alcove to avoid being trampled on by the crowd crazed with terror. 

“I do not understand!” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the screams, “why, they didn’t even take us seriously!” 

“Yeah,” murmured Gnimsh, shocked and horrified. “The Kingpriest ordered those people to kill us!” 

Tas sighed. “I think we will have to move to Plan B shortly” 

“But the earthquake! This is the Cataclysm you said! Tas, we are still alive, we are not dead... perhaps, perhaps in part we have already managed to prevent it, or perhaps make it less violent!” 

“I don’t know... I wanted to ask Crysania, but I lost sight of her! I could have sworn she was there in the front row, but now...” 

Tas removed the dust from his eyes and climbed onto the pedestal of a giant urn, trying to see above the crowd. 

Finally, he saw a familiar face. 

“Dalamar” he exclaimed, jumping and waving. 

But the elf did not see or hear Tas, and disappeared into one of the corridors. 

“Hurry, follow me!” shouted the kender. 

Gnimsh grabbed him. “Tasslehoff, but ... what if I’m right? Wouldn’t it be better to use the Device to escape now?” 

“We can do it later! I told you, Istar will be destroyed by a mountain of fire falling from the sky! For now, the best thing is to follow Dalamar, to see if we can recover the missing piece of the sheet! Or we can ask him to convince Raistlin...” his voice died away. “Well, let’s go!” 

They ran out of the hall into the chaotic corridors. People no longer noticed them, in fact they did not see them at all, and almost trampled them on several occasions. 

With difficulty, Tas was able to locate Dalamar and then, finally, Crysania. They ran towards them, but the crowd was always in the way. When they finally were twenty feet away from Dalamar, the kender spotted Caramon, too. 

“Look!” Tas exclaimed, pointing the big man to Gnimsh, who was trying to clean his glasses from the dust. “Caramon! He is my friend. Now we can ask him if he can convince Raistlin to give us back that piece of sheet since he doesn’t need it…” Then, his voice interrupted with a hitch. 

Caramon had just attacked Dalamar! Then the elf had responded with a spell, and the guards had attacked both! Indeed, the two had never liked each other too much, but for it to get to this? 

“What?” Tas gasped, incredulous. 

The gnome finally put his glasses back on. Upon seeing Caramon, he froze in terror. Tas couldn’t blame the gnome: the giant man not only appeared quite menacing in his blood-stained armor, but to make things worse, he was fighting with Dalamar, who was dressed as a cleric. The mass of people swayed, engulfed in fire, and the wizard walked away staggering, his white cloak streaked with fresh blood. 

“For all the gears,” muttered the gnome, pulling back and clutching the Device. “I won’t be assassinated by your psychopathic friends!” 

The little inventor turned on his heels and fled. Tas saw him run away from the corner of his eye, and for a moment, he was too shocked to react. What was happening? And Gnimsh was running away with the Device of Time Journeying! 

Seeing that Caramon was immobilized but unharmed and that Dalamar was hurrying away from the guards, Tas turned, his pouches twirling, and ran after Gnimsh.

Five minutes later, he found the inventor huddled in a niche, cradling the Device in his hands. 

“Come!” Tas urged him, “we must go!” 

“I ...” stammered the other, evidently too scared to decide what to do. 

The kender, feeling a curious tingling somewhere in his stomach, decided that he was not afraid or desperate: he had simply swallowed a little too much dust. 

He grabbed the gnome by the arm and dragged him along. 

*** 

Gnimsh and Tas walked toward the place where Caramon stood motionless; the corridor was empty; people had moved away. The floor was shaking slightly. The bloody gladiator was a statue of flesh and brass armor, the sword raised in mid-air. 

When he saw him, Gnimsh’s knees gave way. “No,” he pleaded, whimpering and dropping to the floor dead weight. “He will kill me.” 

“He won’t, don’t worry!” Tas insisted, “don’t you see that he’s paralyzed? We must help him...” 

Caramon staggered and regained his balance, the spell no longer affecting him. The gnome squeaked and curled up on the ground. 

“Caramon” called Tas, still pulling the gnome by one hand. 

But the human did not hear him, maybe because that shiny helmet covered his ears. And after all, he was almost twenty feet away from them. Looking at something on the floor, the man ran forward and vanished around a corner of the deserted corridor. 

Finally, Tas managed to get Gnimsh back up and dragged him along while following Caramon, and - now that they could see it - also the trail of blood Dalamar had left behind. 

Between quarrels, crises, and pleadings, the gnome and the kender finally reached the wizard’s secret laboratory. Tas heard the singing stones and, recognizing the sound from Wayreth, hurried Gnimsh to the room where Raistlin was casting the spell. 

When they arrived, though, the stones were murmuring the last echoes of their solitary song: the room was empty. 

As Tas and Gnimsh watched the scene, a terrifying boom exploded above their heads. 

“Plan B!” Gnomish screamed in a shrill voice, but the shaking of the floor was such as to prevent him from handling the delicate Device without the risk of dropping it. 

The gnome curled up on himself, protecting the artifact, while Tas clung to him in an attempt not to be thrown away. 

A warm, blinding light broke through the ceiling. Tasslehoff watched in fascination as the stones above his head drifted away gracefully, revealing Istar’s sky. 

The most incredible thing was that the flames and heat could not reach them; it was a sort of invisible glass dome that separated them from hell above, in which boulders, blocks of stones, roofs of houses, and people, circled. 

The stones around them suddenly found their voice again, but this time they made a dying screech. Gnimsh had passed out, the Device still clutched against his chest, and Tas thought, covering his ears with his hands, that passing out was not a bad idea at all. 

_Greenedera_

____________________

Next chapter: The heart of the darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @RubiniaChangeMadness and @isabellemajere for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry. Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal".  
> \---  
> NOTE  
> I started writing this chapter out of necessity, to fill events that neither Raistlin nor Dalamar could narrate. Still, it was a revelation: I discovered that I LIKE to tell events from Tas’s point of view. Words flow on the page in hundreds, and I must refrain from dedicating too much space to that. And yet... I love you Tas. Thanks for giving me these fantastic moments of discovery. I reread this chapter and chuckle, without remembering to have written it. Maybe someone had dropped it, and I picked it up. Translating it was hellish, though. 
> 
> NOTE 2  
> in Canon Gnimsh meets Tas in the Abyss. He had crafted on his own a Time Journeying Device with which he ended up there. When I wrote this chapter, I only vaguely remembered those events, and I led the events in another direction.


	20. The heart of the darkness

Dalamar shivered. A terrible pain was freezing his bones, and he felt as if something was tearing the skin away from his wounds. He panicked for a moment, realizing he was in complete darkness, and wondered in confusion how his elven sight was unable to pierce the blackness. Maybe he wasn’t awake at all? Was this a nightmare? 

Then he felt it: in the air, there was the faintest tingling of magic. The darkness around him wasn’t natural, but arcane. 

He moved his hands blindly, feeling around for and immediately finding a body. It was undoubtedly Raistlin, laying with his arms tight around the elf’s waist in an iron grip. Cautiously, with no desire to hurt his lover, Dalamar disentangled himself and found the soft and overly perfumed body of Crysania, which lay lifeless in turn. He rolled her aside unceremoniously, but she didn’t stir. 

The dark elf was so weak. His clothes creaked as he moved; scabs and dried blood peeled off painfully, until warm blood flowed again. 

_Blood..._ whispered a voice behind his ear.

A hand, cold as death itself, sank into his back. Dalamar screamed in pain and turned his head, facing two incorporeal eyes, white and milky, floating in the darkness. In confusion, the elf realized it was not the first time the ghost had touched him this way. His sense of vertigo worsened. 

He tried to get up, but his legs gave away. He recognized those eyes; he knew all too well that cold touch. He recognized the stale smell in the air, of rotting things, of putrification. Even if he had not already known the destination of Raistlin’s spell, he would have recognized the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas anyway. Now, blinded and on the verge of passing out, he had useless confirmation. He drew a shaky breath. 

“ _Ast lenithis kor_ ,” Dalamar murmured, carefully chanting the words as he crumpled some dried nightshade leaves between his fingers. It was a spell he knew would not harm the guardians of the tower – the kind of undead too powerful to yield over such trivial necromantic constraints – but it would keep them at some distance for the time being. 

The darkness filled with snarls and hisses. Scores of eyes appeared all around, creating a circle of predators staring at Dalamar, Raistlin and Crysania. 

When the brief ecstasy of magic vanished, the dark elf felt even weaker and more exhausted than before; blood loss brought him to the verge of losing consciousness. Licking his dry lips, Dalamar groped for Raistlin, soon finding him again. He lifted him gently, leaning the man’s head onto his chest, and found one hand of the archmage: it was unusually cold. 

How fragile those hands seemed, without their usual warmth. Dalamar rubbed his thumb on Raistlin’s palm while brushing the frail human’s temple with his lips. 

“ _Shalafi_ ,” he called, his voice somewhat muffled, as if the darkness was too thick to let it out. 

“Raistlin!” he repeated in a more urgent tone. “Wake up. We need you!” 

Nothing. The elf could feel Raistlin’s chest rising in shallow breaths, but the wizard remained unconscious. 

Around them, the whispers rose again. Dalamar looked around, seeing only vague grayish impressions where the ghosts moved in the malevolent darkness. 

“Master Fistandantilus, wake up,” he shouted, distinctly enunciating the syllables as he stared at the ghosts and observed their reactions. They hesitated and wavered, as grass moved by a breeze. 

The elf steeled himself and extracted a calcite crystal with a polished and smooth surface from a pocket of his belt. “ _Shirak_ ,” he murmured. 

Nothing happened. The wizard was so weak that magic had temporarily abandoned him. He could almost physically perceive his circle of protection against the undead as it gradually weakened, the guardians gnawing and prodding it with insatiable longing. The dark elf’s heartbeat involuntarily quickened.. 

A loud, deep, terrible scream ripped through the darkness, startling Dalamar so violently that Raistlin slipped from his arms. He caught his lover before his head hit the floor and hugged Raistlin’s sleeping form frantically, like a sailor with a floating piece of wood during a shipwreck. 

Dalamar regained his wits and recognized the voice; despite himself, he felt his heart sink. That was... Caramon? In the end, had the man traveled through time with them? He remembered Crysania defending the wizards with her divine magic, but he hadn’t noticed that Caramon had already stepped inside the Timespin spell circle. 

_That damn bastard. Enjoy the loving attention of the guardians! Little wonder that Raistlin is so exhausted! He just brought four people forward in time,_ thought the elf. If Dalamar remembered the last moments before their departure correctly, the spell had been on the verge of going wild. 

With a hint of wicked amusement, the dark elf welcomed the guardians to feast on Caramon’s blood and life energy. He hoped they would transform the man into an undead, too. 

_Just what he deserves._

The scream rang out again. By his side, Dalamar heard Crysania awaken with a gasp. He reached out and touched her arm. 

“Don’t be afraid, Revered Daughter,” he said with forced kindness. “We are safe for now.” 

She moaned and crouched, groping for him in the dark. 

“Where... what’s happening?” she whispered as she found his arm and squeezed it. Before Dalamar could reply, the priestess issued a single word: “Light!” Paladine’s holy medallion obeyed, and began to glow with a cold white light that hurt Dalamar’s eyes. 

The light could not dispel all the magical darkness in the room. By squinting, the elf could still distinguish the three of them in the studio, close to the massive engraved desk of the Master of the Tower. It illuminated Caramon too, who lay prone at the edge of the circle of light. His unconscious figure was shaking with convulsions. 

“Is it Caramon? Why is he screaming?” the woman asked with a small voice, her face rattled by terror. 

“Be careful, Revered Daughter,” murmured Dalamar, fearing that the foolish priestess would leave the safety of his circle of protection. “The Dead Ones around us are strong and bloodthirsty.” 

“They are attacking him!” Crysania tried to stand up weakly, but tripped over the hem of her robes and fell back. She turned toward the elf, finally saw Raistlin, and widened her eyes. 

“Raistlin!” She crawled up to the mage, placing a hand on his cheek and the other on his chest. “What happened to him? Did Caramon... hurt him?” she asked, bewildered. 

Dalamar gritted his teeth when he saw the woman gently caressing his lover’s cheek, but forced himself to behave. “No, my lady. My _Shalafi_ is exhausted from the spell he used to travel in time and hasn’t woken up yet.” 

Crysania frowned and raised the hand she had placed on Raistlin’s chest, staring in horror at the blood staining her palm. “But... why is there so much blood?” 

_Oh. Right,_ Dalamar remembered. He had inadvertently stained Raistlin's clothing and face. “I’m afraid it’s mine. I am wounded,” he explained to the priestess . He tried to assess his own health, but was too weak to be rational about his condition. 

“Caramon...?” she asked in horror. 

“Yes,” Dalamar replied, studying her reaction with curiosity. Somehow, she paled even more. 

“Down there, in the laboratory... it was like Caramon had gone insane. He would have killed both you and Raistlin,” she murmured, shaking her head and using the hem of her white robe to clean Raistlin’s face. “I do not understand why! Why did Caramon attack you?” 

Dalamar shook his head. “We have never been friends, but I certainly never thought he would hurt me. He caught me off guard. The important thing is he didn’t hurt my _Shalafi_ too.” 

“For Paladine’s sake! No, fortunately not... but...” 

They heard the man’s scream again, more desperate this time. Three guardians hovered around the warrior; like iridescent gulls descending on their prey, they tore a small piece of his life away each time they passed. 

“But we can’t let him die like this!” Crysania breathed and stood up on shaky legs. 

“Revered Daughter, please! The spell protecting us is about to wear off,” Dalamar said urgently. “The light of your God can keep the ghosts at bay, but if you walk away, they could attack Raistlin! And he’s the only hope we have to get out of here alive!” 

“I’ll be back soon!” she said, then walked away. 

_How could she be such an idiot?_ Dalamar would have screamed in frustration if he hadn’t been so tired. He was weak and thirsty, about to pass out at any moment from blood loss. He watched, dazed, as the light between Crysania’s hands moved away and dimmed when the priestess stepped out from the circle of protection. The Dead Ones backed away from the woman, repelled by her divine aura. Crysania knelt beside Caramon, waking him up and reassuring him - as if he hadn’t just tried to assassinate them all. 

Raistlin’s twin struggled to move - apparently, Crysania’s spell in Istar had temporarily blinded him. _Good_ , Dalamar thought, barely overhearing their conversation. _Too bad that the effect could not be permanent._

Sighing Dalamar tried to sit more firmly, fighting against vertigo as he held Raistlin close to him. _I must stay awake!_ He could hear the two humans talking, but he could no longer understand what they were saying. He blinked and realized that he was no longer sitting - but lying on the ground. His robes, wet with blood, were uncomfortably stuck to his skin. The chill of the room penetrated them, making him shiver. 

_Wait. Where is Raistlin?_ He searched blindly around but managed only to brush the hem of a velvet robe. Crysania’s light seemed so dim, so distant. Dalamar caught a glimpse of movement, of a struggle. 

_What is Caramon doing? Is he attacking the priestess? What is happening?_

“No!” boomed Caramon’s voice, amid the sound of a scuffle and Crysania’s cries. “Let them see him as he exists in their own darkness!” 

“Paladine, help me!” the priestess called out. Their figures were two shadows outlined by the light of the medallion. 

Dalamar closed his eyes, then slipped into unconsciousness. 

*** 

Raistlin woke up in terrible and familiar pain, cold hands gripping his heart. 

He remembered the dark presence of the Lich Fistandantilus, looming over his soul, devouring his body like a worm all those years. He was always just a step away from Raistlin’s mind; frozen hands reaching out to seize his brain. He remembered the endless darkness of the lich’s prison, the hideous sensory deprivation in which he had lived for the longest time. Perhaps he was still in there, and would stay there forever. 

Then, confused memories peeped into his mind. Dalamar’s voice, his sly and mischievous smile, the complicity they had shared during those days in Istar... 

_Istar?_

_Istar!_

Fistandantilus was dead. 

Raistlin opened his eyes. He saw a Dead One looming over him, its translucent hand clawing at his chest. Behind it, many others waited. _How dare they! And where is Dalamar?_

" _Ast tsadarar kwarwish ku. Jalaran!_ "

The ghosts shrieked as they were cast away, far beyond the walls of the room. They would return, but not so soon. Raistlin gasped, trying to calm his breath and his racing heart. The icy sensation caused by that ghostly touch lingered inside his ribcage.

The darkness was thick and arcane. The mage searched around him with his hand and found the familiar shape of the Staff of Magius. “ _Shirak_ ,” he breathed, then tried to sit up as the staff’s cold glow created a small pool of light around him. 

Raistlin propped himself up on an elbow, then started when he saw Dalamar’s still form lying in a pool of blood beside him. He stared without blinking at the lean chest of the elf until he saw it rise slightly.

“Raistlin!” a female voice whimpered from another direction. _Crysania!_ Raistlin remembered their last moments in Istar and looked for her. The woman had curled up on herself on the floor twenty feet away, at the edges of Raistlin’s light. She was covering her face with her hands in a futile attempt to protect herself from the Dead Ones that had been attacking all of them. 

Raistlin scoffed silently. _Shouldn’t clerics be trained to chase away the undead?_

Then, near her, Raistlin saw Caramon too, and his mind froze. 

_Caramon. He attacked Dalamar._

Without realizing it, at the sight of his twin Raistlin bared his teeth in a grimace of pure hatred.

_Not only had Caramon tried to kill Dalamar, but he had also slipped into my Timespin spell after all!_

Raistlin remembered Dalamar, who was still bleeding. He had no time to waste. He tried to get up to check the dark elf and fell back gasping for breath, but he refused to surrender to fatigue. His Timespin spell had finally worked, they had managed to arrive in the years following the Cataclysm! Raistlin had been able to complete the ritual by ignoring its precise somatic component, while the mountain of fire was descending on Istar! They couldn’t fail now! He couldn’t lose Dalamar now! 

Small, strong hands – Crysania’s – helped him sit upright. Raistlin opened his eyes to find her frightened face close to his.

“Raistlin! Are you well?”

The wizard nodded, tired, wondering if he looked like he was doing well. But, like it or not, now he needed the woman. He raised an arm and drew her close against his chest in an awkward embrace. She leaned in it with a sob of relief. After a few seconds, he grabbed Crysania by the shoulders and pulled her away. 

“Tell me what happened,” he ordered, his voice rough.

“I….he…” Crysania stammered. “I woke up here, and there was such a terrible scream...” she looked at him, perhaps expecting comfort, a smile, or maybe a bag of candy as a reward for her heroic adventure. He continued to glare at her in silence, and she was forced to continue: “Your apprentice kept the ghosts at bay, and I banished the darkness with the help of Paladine. The ghosts were attacking Caramon, he was screaming in pain, you were unconscious, and I couldn’t let him die here. So I went to chase away the undead, but Caramon...” her voice faltered as she looked around in fear. 

“Continue,” he said sternly. 

“The light of my medallion began to fade...”

 _Of course it did,_ thought Raistlin bitterly. _How could Paladine, the holy platinum dragon, support a second-rate cleric like you?_

“Then your brother got up and threw me to the ground,” added Crysania, more and more distressed. “Saying that the ghosts must talk to you so they would stop attacking us, that they wouldn’t have been able to come near you with me protecting you, and...”

“Did you believe him?” the wizard interrupted coldly. 

“Of course not! I tried to free myself, but he pinned me to the ground, and in the meantime my medallion slipped from my hands...” she squirmed under Raistlin’s intense gaze as he narrowed his eyes at her. 

“Caramon’s stupidity could have caused the Dead One to kill Dalamar and me. And trust me, soon after, you would have followed,” he hissed. 

She shivered. Raistlin could easily read fear in her eyes: fear that the wizard would judge her deficient for her foolish actions. 

“I’m sorry,” she wailed. “I tried to stop him! And if he tries to attack you again, I will ask for Paladine’s help!” 

Her breath hitched, and she curled against him. “This darkness is terrifying! And what if Paladine no longer answers my prayers?” she added with a frightened, feverish voice. 

Raistlin would have liked to know a curse to petrify the woman, keep her silent and frozen until the day she would have to open the Portal. But he felt so weak that he doubted he could even heat a cup of water with his magic. As if on cue, his windpipe closed, and his body shook with a violent, dry, persistent coughing fit.

Crysania looked at him with dismay and caressed his back, waiting for the spasms to pass. 

“Raistlin! What can I do for you? Shall I ask Paladine to heal you?” 

“No. It’s the same cough as in our time, remember? You must heal Dalamar,” Raistlin murmured, squeezing her arm to emphasize the importance of his words and forcing her to bend forward, her head near his lips so she could hear his whispering. “We need his magic. I must rest. Cure him! Or you’ll be alone!” 

“I... I just hope Paladine will grant me his help...” she protested, twisting the velvet cloth of Raistlin’s black robes between her cold fingers. 

“Find the way! We need heat, and I need hot water!” 

“What about Caramon? He could attack us again!” 

“We’ll keep him...at bay... Dalamar will protect you!” 

Raistlin was so tired that darkness crawled at the edge of his sight. _Crysania must heal Dalamar! If Caramon wakes up first..._

Raistlin gathered his willpower. He put a hand on the nape of the woman’s head and pulled her closer, brushing her forehead with his lips. 

“ _Kair doknik tsu kar mu vdolar._ ” 

He quickly weaved his magic, impressing upon her the need to not trust Caramon, and to help Dalamar at any cost. A crude command, but if Crysania were usually pliable to mental compulsions, her current state of terror would play further in his favor. 

The magic burned his lips and drained the last energies he had. The woman gasped and pulled back suddenly. 

Cursing his weakness, Raistlin sank into darkness.

_Greenedera_

\------------------

Next chapter: "Dust"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @WishyWish for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> I wrote this fic in Italian. I translated it in English because the Dragonlance Fandom is almost non-existent in Italy. I am aware that my command of the language is not enough; I'm sorry. Any help in smoothing any weird sentences is welcome, as any comment or review about the story.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal."


	21. Dust

Dalamar shivered violently. His body convulsed, the sensation intense and painful. It was like being hit by a shower of ice - startling, but not so painful as when the Dead Ones had touched him. He gasped for air and opened his eyes wide. Crysania’s face was very close to his own. She was weeping, and held in her clasped hands the medallion of Paladine. Its warm light illuminated the woman’s face and pierced the elf’s eyes.

 _Right,_ Dalamar thought _. The Tower of Palanthas._

“Thank you, Paladine! Oh, thank you!” Crysania prayed fervently as she swayed back and forth, each word flowing into another without pause. “Lord, give me the strength. Help me to bring him back. Agony and death I take upon myself, In darkness, all alone… Oh, my Lord, thank you for granting me the power of healing! Protect your little sheep, help them even when they have chosen the path of evil, because there are no stray sheep that cannot find the way home toward redemption...” 

The elf ignored the priestess’s holy whining. He blinked several times, adjusting his sight, and turned his head in search of Raistlin and Caramon. He saw them where he had before, both still unconscious, but the crystal atop the Staff of Magius now glowed softly. 

“Revered Daughter,” Dalamar whispered, startling the woman. 

“Yes! Here I am!” she murmured in a frantic tone. Her nervous eyes focused on him; her hand reached his shoulder. “Paladine cured your wounds, Dalamar. He laid his holy hand on you, despite the color of your robes. It was a miracle, a portent proving that your soul, like Raistlin’s, can be redeemed!” 

“Thank you?” answered the Silvanesti, uncertain. Divine healing by a cleric of good on a dark elf was so unusual he could hardly believe it possible. Perhaps, until now, simply no one had ever tried. 

With the priestess’s help, Dalamar slowly sat up. He was so tired her closeness didn’t seem as unpleasant as usual. 

She took his hand. “Dalamar. While you were unconscious, Raistlin said he must rest. He said you would be able to warm this place, defend us if Caramon wakes up and…” her voice died offwhen the elf’s cloak shifted, revealing the white robes drenched in blood. 

Dalamar knelt cautiously on the stone floor and realized that yes, Crysania had healed him, but his wounds weren’t completely closed. He squeezed his side, where the pain still pierced him. 

“Raistlin…” Dalamar faltered. “My _Shalafi_. I must check on him,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain. 

“I already told you he’s resting,” Crysania replied impatiently. “I already checked on him. He’s not hurt.” Nonetheless, she helped the elf get up and accompanied him to where Raistlin was sleeping. “Raistlin said you would have to hurry: he needs heat and hot water, but above all you must prevent Caramon from attacking us again!” she continued, her voice finding a commanding tone again. 

The elf ignored her and leaned on Raistlin. He was as pale as a corpse. The only way Dalamar could tell he was alive at all was because of the light shining from the crystal atop the Staff of Magius, under Raistlin’s hand. Dalamar’s chest tightened. He knew that exhaustion was behind Raistlin’s unconsciousness, nonetheless, seeing him so pale frightened the elf deeply. They’d had so little time together, and such difficult times still lay ahead. All Dalamar wanted was to snatch Raisltin away and live what time they had, somewhere safe, just the two of them and magic. The dark elf resisted the urge to kiss those pale lips just to check Raistlin’s breathing: the priestess was there, and they had more pressing problems. Crysania’s grip on Dalamar’s arm tightened. The elf decided that, for the time being, Caramon was indeed the most urgent problem they had.

“What happened when Caramon attacked you?” he asked, looking back at the woman. 

She paled, taken aback by Dalamar’s stern tone. “Caramon believed that if the ghosts touched Raistlin, they would recognize him as their master. He wanted to stop me from protecting both of you with Paladine’s light! And then the ghosts attacked us all, and maybe they would have killed us if Raistlin hadn’t awakened and cast them away with a spell! Raistlin said that Caramon’s idea was wrong, that he could condemn us all!” Anxiously she continued, “Dalamar, that man is dangerous, he has lost his senses. We must tie him up until I can reason with him!” 

Seeing the genuine terror in her eyes, Dalamar quickly considered his options. 

“Are you sure Caramon is still alive after the ghosts attacked?” 

She shook her head, trembling. “I’m not sure… I don’t know, but the ghosts had just begun to attack us when Raistlin sent them away… but I hope he’s not!” 

“You hope not?” Dalamar bitterly asked. 

“Of course! He’s still a creature of Paladine!” 

_Damn it._ “Of course, Revered Daughter. I’ll tie him up, and you will try to bring him to his senses. Caramon Majere has a long-standing grudge against me, so reasoning with him is a task better put to you. But fear not, my lady. I will protect you with my life,” he said with his best charming smile. 

She blinked, surprised and slightly fascinated by his sudden change in tone. 

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I will tell your... What did you call him? I will tell your _Shalafi_ of your great devotion.” 

Dalamar bowed. He had to seize every opportunity to make Crysania an ally against Caramon - especially if he couldn’t kill the man in the first place. He had to stall until he spoke to Raistlin, even though his fingers were tingling with the burning desire to slit Caramon’s throat right away. How nice it would be to cast a spell that would kill the man immediately, silently, without the priestess noticing. Instead Dalamar felt weak and tired, and had no choice but to manage Crysania without scaring her or compromising her loyalty to Raistlin. 

The wizard stood up, a twinge of pain at his side. He heaved a shallow breath and took a few steps toward the corner of the room, where heavy draperies covered the large panoramic window of the studio. It was disturbing to see the room in such a state of neglect, but it was more problematic for Dalamar to deal with similarities between the place in his memories and this one, rather than the differences. 

Sitting at the large historiated desk, the monster who had been Fistandantilus in Raistlin’s body had coldly welcomed him on his first day of apprenticeship. Dalamar’s heart had already been broken, dead, and buried deep. Nonetheless, it had been so painful, so utterly painful to see his lover inhabited by a cruel, unknown monster. 

The books of spells that Dalamar was not allowed to study were already on display on that bookshelf. An unnatural chill permeated the room, just like the night the Lich had burned five bleeding holes in the elf’s chest. “ _Bring Par-Salian my regards,_ ” he had spat, “ _apprentice!_ ” It had been Raistlin’s beloved face that regarded Dalamar with such hatred, distorted in the Lich’s expression. That memory would haunt Dalamar forever. 

Now, the same undead Guardians watched his movements from the shadows. 

Dalamar stopped in the center of the study to look around. Crysania had stood, but remained beside Raistlin. The Staff of Magius projected the shadow of the woman on the floor like some grotesque design painted on the tiles, which were cluttered with ashes and pieces of broken furniture. 

The boundary of the illuminated zone, where the light could not extend, narrowed. Impenetrable darkness lay beyond; a black realm where disembodied, pearly, evil eyes silently floated. Whatever Raistlin had done to drive the Dead Ones away, it only worked within the light projected by his Staff. Dalamar walked to the window, on the edge of the darkness. The familiar voice of the guardians whispered to him words of hatred and insatiable hunger. Maybe Rannoch was among them? Impossible to say for now. But they were in the past. Rannoch was nothing but an undead like any other, and none of them knew him. Dalamar discarded such useless thoughts. 

The dark elf cautiously loosened the rope that held the curtains, then rolled it upon his shoulder. He grabbed the heavy black fabric and tore it off, breaking its supports. Beyond the window, Palanthas lay silent and dark in the night. The whispers around Dalamar became more agitated, restless, and excited. The elf was careful to remain always in the light while gathering the fabric and bringing it back. He took a few minutes to cut some strips from the cloth, which fortunately seemed of good quality, resistant enough make up for the use he had in mind. After a few moments of hesitation, Crysania joined and helped him. 

Eventually, Dalamar was satisfied. He stood up and regarded Caramon, studying him. 

The wizard checked his components and summoned in his mind the formula of an attack spell – a ridiculously weak one, but the only one he would be able to cast right now. He had it ready on his lips as he bent over Caramon’s figure, in case the man was just pretending to be asleep. His hands worked deftly and lightly as he tied Caramon’s hands behind his head, then ran the rope behind his back, up to tie his feet and legs. He made several knots, and then repeated all the ties with the stripes from the curtains. Caramon was certainly alive, but in some sort of coma-like sleep. On his neck, now visible as the elf hog-tied him like a calf, were white marks like hickeys left by an ice lover. 

“Is he alive?” asked Crysania. 

“Yes.” _Sadly._

“Paladine be thanked.” 

_Oh, Nuitari, help me…_ thought Dalamar as he cruelly tightened the last knots several times. Yes, from that position, he was satisfied that it would be nearly impossible for Caramon to exercise his strength without dislocating a couple of joints. 

Dalamar returned to Crysania, handing her a large piece of tent cloth. “It’s not much, but you can use it to keep warm, milady,” he said gently. She accepted it, a crease marring her forehead as she cautiously wrapped the dirty, heavy cloth around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she said, regarding him with some measure of curiosity. From her perspective, it was only the second time they had spent any time together, and she was uncomfortable with this novelty. 

Dalamar dragged another curtain for Raistlin, and covered him as best he could without removing his hand from the Staff. The dark elf then went around the room and picked up several pieces of broken furniture to dump into the blackened fireplace. He found a poker, broom, and tongs lying scattered on the floor. He swept aside the ashes forgotten by the last inhabitants of the Tower and placed the wood neatly in the hearth. 

“Dalamar...” Crysania asked tentatively while he worked. “I don’t understand. Tell me, why did Raistlin bring us to this place? Why is it haunted? It’s the Tower of Palanthas, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, Revered Daughter, we are in Palanthas, in the Tower of High Sorcery,” the elf dared to say. He and Raistlin had discussed many times what to tell or not tell the woman, but on some topics Raistlin had not shared his final decision, particularly during those strange days before the Cataclysm. Dalamar was cautious, afraid of saying too much. 

“Oh,” she merely commented. “Is this where the Portal is?” 

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask my _shalafi_ ,” Dalamar murmured, pretending to focus on kindling the fire. He wasn’t going to tell Crysania about the small deviation they would have to do to Zhaman before dealing with the Portal. Wherever it was.

“ _Phyronega,_ ” he whispered. 

A thin tongue of flame lapped the wood; Dalamar cured it with fragments of parchment and splinters until he had a steady fire. Behind him, he heard a soft scrape. The elf turned and saw Crysania place an earthenware carafe filled with water beside the fireplace.

“Thank you, Paladine,” she was murmuring, her eyes closed, “Let this water, evoked with my tears, be a symbol of rebirth; proof of the goodness of your power even in the dark. Your light in despair warms our hearts and lets us smile again... “ 

Ignoring her, Dalamar checked the room. Beyond the circle of light, twenty-three Guardians waited, motionless, staring at them with unwavering patience. 

_I hope you are resting well, Raistlin. All too soon, we will need your protection._ The Silvanesti looked away and cautiously began to take off his bloody clothes so he could inspect his wounds. The heat of the fire was pleasant and reassuring. As soon as Dalamar was strong enough, he hoped he would be able to move Raistlin closer to the hearth, even if he dreaded the idea of disturbing his sleep and magical light. 

As Dalamar suspected, the almighty Paladine had not completely healed him - but the god had undoubtedly saved his life. The gash along his back had disappeared, while the lower part of the wound, where the sword had penetrated the side and marred the internal organs, was not yet fully healed. There did not seem to be internal bleeding, however: just a superficial and painful wound. 

Crysania interrupted her litany and crouched down beside him. “Your wounds!” she commented, astonished. “I do not understand...” 

Without replying, Dalamar tore the hem of his white robes into strips to use as bandages. 

“Wait, let me help you,” she said with exaggerated concern, as she moved to aid him in dressing his wound. 

Dalamar finally noticed how weird Crysania’s behavior was. He studied her, seeing her blank gaze, and sensed the presence of a mental compulsion. _Raistlin must have commanded her to help me, or something like that._ There were crisscrossing red veins in her watery eyes and dark circles under them. The elf had already seen that kind of effect, and he knew that the priestess would endeavor to obey the instructions despite fatigue until she fell to the ground, dead. Raistlin had risked breaking his key to the Abyss on such an extreme spell. 

“Thank you, Revered Daughter,” the mage replied gently. “Just a moment.” 

Together, they finished cleaning the wound and bandaging Dalamar’s side. Finally, the dark elf wrapped himself in his black cloak. “Now rest, Lady Crysania. I’ll keep watch.”

An instinctive and unconscious relief relaxed the woman’s face. “Are you sure? Don’t you need my help?” 

“I’m sure. Thank you for your support. Now rest so that when you wake up, you can care for my wounds, and if necessary, invoke the help of your god again.” 

Her eyelids were beginning to droop lower and lower with every slow blink. “All right. Thanks. I think I will lay here, beside you, in case you need me.” She passed out, collapsing on him like a puppet whose strings had been cut. 

Dalamar, still sitting in front of the fire, caught her in his arms and laid her nearby, wrapped in her dusty blanket. He had no intention of leaving Raistlin alone in the center of the room. Collecting as much wood as possible, he stacked the fragments of furniture in the fireplace so that they burned slowly. 

The temperature in the room had risen to bearable levels. The guardians were still there, waiting at the edge of the darkness. Caramon was unconscious; Crysania slept soundly. 

Dalamar sighed and joined Raistlin. Still asleep, the human had turned on his side, one hand gripping the Staff of Magius tightly, the other curled against his chest, his head bowed under the hood to protect his eyes from the light. The dark elf sat next to him, positioning himself on the opposite side from the fire. He gently tucked the velvet curtain around Raistlin and laid one hand on his shoulder. 

Raistlin remained motionless, deeply asleep. Dalamar prepared wearily for a long wait: he felt tired and ached now that the intoxicating effect of adrenaline was fading,but he wouldn’t sleep. Not with all those enemies surrounding them. 

Listening intently to the silence, he entered that state of meditation typical of his kind where he waited, watching the darkness. 

The darkness looked at him in turn. 

*** 

“ _Ast lenithis kor!_ ” 

A few hours later, the Dead Ones swirled around the mortals like sharks around a sinking ship. The room temperature had dropped again;the fire had turned a cold blue. Crysania trembled in her fitful sleep and Caramon moaned, terrified but unable to wake up. This situation had worsened after the first hour of Dalamar’s solitary watch, the ghosts sweeping boldly inside the circle of light in their attempts to snag Raistlin.

Dalamar hugged Raistlin, still unconscious, against his chest. He seemed so light and fragile. “Please, Raistlin. Come back to me,” he whispered in his hair.

The Silvanesti had cast all his spells and was now defenseless, weak, and exhausted. The last circle of protection he had summoned would soon be gone. Was this damned Tower destined to become his grave after all?

In his arms, Raistlin was feverish, shaking, and drenched in sweat. 

“ _He came..._ ” one of the Guardians whispered, “ _...before the Time._ ” 

“ _How dare you stop us from reaching our Master?_ ” threatened another. 

Dalamar stared at them with hatred. “Begone!”

“ _He’s the Master of the Tower,_ ” whispered one. 

“ _The true Master of the Tower left long ago,_ ” said another. 

“ _Only the Master of Time can enter here!_ ” 

“He is the Master of Past and Present!” said Dalamar through pale lips. 

Whispers: “ _Fistandantilus... the Dark One..._ ” 

“ _Is he Master Fistandantilus?_ ” the voices of the ghosts overlapped one another in a cacophony of ethereal hisses. “ _We must know..._ ” 

One of the Dead Ones entered the circle of light, revealing a faint, iridescent, shape of black robes and human features. “ _Step aside, miserable mortal,_ ” he threatened. 

Dalamar, despite himself, recognized the shade: he ignored its name, but he knew it was the most powerful of the wraiths, and the most loyal to Fistandantilus. 

“ _I suggest you move away, black robe,_ ” said the undead in a flat voice, casually dispelling Dalamar’s spell. “ _I warned you once. I won’t do so again._ ”

Dalamar’s grip on Raistlin tightened. He searched for yet another ounce of magic to throw against the ghosts, finding only his despair, but along with it came something else: his trust in Raistlin. The young man was an inexhaustible source of courage, tenacity, and determination that guided and inspired the dark elf. Dalamar had to trust that Raistlin would pass this trial, too. 

“Come, then,” the elf whispered as he embraced his lover convulsively. “But be careful. He is Fistandantilus, the Master of the Past and Present, and he will punish you if you dare to hurt him.” 

The Silvanesti heard the distant echo of derisive laughter. The shimmering figure came closer and bent down to touch Raistlin’s chest with ghostly hands. 

The human gasped, convulsing within the elf’s arms, who in turn was swamped by a painful chilling sensation. Like a spear of ice, the Guardian’s mind pierced the soul of both mages, impaling them like two fishes. 

_A laboratory crudely excavated into a mountain. The boy laying on the slab of stone was barely fourteen, but his potential was so great that there was no point in waiting. He placed his old, wrinkled hand on the young student’s head, murmured a few words, and watched with pleasure as the boy became a dried-up corpse, his fleshy cheeks shrinking into his skull in a matter of seconds._

_A stone cellar. The archlich smiled. “I am Fistandantilus. I think you’ve heard of me.”_

_“I have,” said the young and juicy apprentice in front of him. The boy was a little too skinny for his tastes, but he would make a quick snack while waiting for something more powerful._

_“Fistandantilus, most powerful of the magi who have ever lived,” the young one added._

_“I am,” he said. The ancient archmage laughed. “Watching the reactions of the apprentices always amuses me; it happens each time. Yes, youngling, you are taking your Test. Tell me, how do you think you’ve done this far?”_

_Wayreth. The cough was so terrible; he couldn’t breathe. Blood choked his throat, and the phlegm gurgled heavily in his lungs. Darkness crawled to the edge of his vision, while the muscles of his chest ached, seeking relief, trying to cough again and expel the terrible evil that was killing him._

_Another memory. He was staring at the sky, as he lay on the steps of the Library of Palanthas. Triumphant satisfaction, gloating victory, but so empty of flavor. He finally possessed the body he had sought, but it was so weak. He, the greatest sorcerer of all time, was forced into that parody of a human being. He, whose booming voice had evoked countless demons from the Abyss, was forced into that puny body. But he would solve that problem. Soon he would abandon that insignificant mortal flesh, and become a god..._

_In the meantime, another awareness peered through the magic barrier like a mouse behind a wall, hoping not to be noticed. His sole purpose was to find a way to defeat Fistandantilus... Fistandantilus..._

_Neraka. The Queen of Darkness was immense; black, yet brilliant of all five colors. She was a veiled woman, and a five-headed dragon at the same time. She laughed menacingly, satisfied to watch the world be devoured by flames of war. She did not look back at him, because she trusted her most loyal servant, her knight of black magic and dark captain of her evil armies._

_In the dungeon under the Temple of Istar, two Fistandantiluses glared at each other. The old man in front of him was cold, dark, cruel. Decomposition exhaled from every pore of his skin. “But I am the real Fistandantilius! Soon, I’ll be the only one!”_

_The wizard screamed in pain and fury. Finding strength from some lost source, he punched his first trough old Fistandantilus’s chest, grasping tightly at the archmage’s decaying black heart._

_The bloodstone lay heavily in his open hand, whispering thoughts of death and eternal life. Power flowed through his limbs like thunder and lightning._

_Darkness. Hate and helplessness chased each other relentlessly. Imprisonment. A world of blind thought, ephemeral memories, bitter remorse. Fistandantilus was now wearing Raistlin’s body; he had seized his magic; hurt Dalamar by abandoning him and attacking him in the caves of Neraka. The Lich robbed Raistlin of his fleeting human years, the few moments he could have devoted to what he loved: magic. They were years that he could have dedicated to the one he loved: Dalamar. Like a fish in a bowl, his mind was furiously swimming in circles._

_The Sea of Blood swirled red and gray, and the pain in Dalamar’s heart was terrifying. Raistlin had left him here to die..._

Dalamar suddenly felt tugged, observed, valued, and discarded. It wasn’t him that the Guardian wanted, of course. With the same feeling of dizziness as when the Perechon had crashed down the Maelstrom wall, the elf was thrown back into his body. His eyes rolled back, his head lolled. He lost consciousness. 

_Greenedera_

\---------------

Next chapter: Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 08/10/2020  
> Thanks to @WishyWish for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal." IN this particular chapter I quoted Fistandantilus' dialog with Raistlin from Skull Bearer's fic.


	22. Stones

All of a sudden, Dalamar was wide awake. He opened his eyes, breathing heavily. 

The Guardian had withdrawn his incorporeal hand and - ignoring the elf - regarded Raistlin with his pale unblinking eyes. Although those eyes were devoid of a pupil, Dalamar thought he could read doubt in them. 

The wraith straightened up, and all around the other ghosts swayed in expectation. _The Master has come,_ it declared in a hissing whisper, before stepping back into the shadows. 

_You._

The burning thought came from Raistlin’s mind with such power, it was enough to make both Dalamar and the other two humans - trapped in their sleep - flinch. It swept over the ghosts, bending them as a powerful gust of wind did to grass. 

_From now on, you will obey me. Blindly. Unquestioningly. And never again will you dare to challenge my authority, because you know what I am capable of, even against those of your kind._

The Dead Ones lowered their eyes and retreated further, disappearing into the shadows. _We are at your command, Master,_ they muttered silently. 

Suddenly the fire turned orange-yellow again, the temperature in the room rose to an acceptable level, and the shadows – still thick but somewhat less threatening - retracted to lurk in the corners of the room. 

Dalamar exhaled the breath he held. He sat and cradled Raistlin’s head in his arms, pulling the wizard upright enough to make him comfortable. The human’s eyes were still closed and there was a frown on his face as if he were in pain. The dark elf brushed a lock of sweat-slicked hair behind Raistlin’s ear, and he opened his eyes. 

They remained there, looking at each other for several seconds. They were so far from that rainy day when they had met one another’s gaze for the first time. Raistlin’s human nature and the cruel succession of events - curses, spells, and mysterious necromantic transformations - had profoundly changed the physical appearance of the young man in the few years since they had met. But in that face, the elf once again saw that magical, extraordinary intensity; the brilliant vital spark, the acute intelligence, the unique and unrepeatable soul that was and would forever be only Raistlin. If that had been the first moment of their meeting, Dalamar would have fallen in love with him all over again. 

_I love you desperately, Raistlin. I’d do anything for you. I’d give up everything for you. The joy I feel being with you, for better or worse, has no boundaries. I will stop at nothing to preserve this joy, because it's the most precious gem that exists in my life. Like a dragon with its treasure, I will defend my love with all I have._

Raistlin heard those silent words and his eyes widened; his grip on Dalamar’s arms tightened. Their eyes warred with one another, neither letting up until Raistlin’s lips softened in the sweet, secret smile that only Dalamar had ever seen on his face. 

_Dalamar. I don’t deserve you_ , was Raistlin’s loving thought, as he wound one hand in the elf’s hair and pulled him closer. His mental voice was quieter and more familiar now, less frightening than before. Only his exhaustion seeped through. 

_Nonsense_ , Dalamar replied. He glanced at their companions to make sure they were asleep, then leaned down for a quick kiss on his partner’s lips. Dalamar withdrew immediately but, with his fingers, continued to draw soothing circles on Raistlin’s nape. The archmage leaned slightly into the touch and shut his eyes again. 

Raistlin twitched. He put a sleeve over his mouth, his breath wheezing, and a violent fit of coughing shook his whole body. He managed to catch his breath, but trembled so that he curled up against Dalamar.

The elf grimaced as he heard that gurgling noise from Raistlin’s lungs. _That cough? Again…?_

Dalamar hugged him again, then laid on his side and wrapped them both up with the black curtain. Raistlin intertwined his legs with the elf's and burrowed his face in Dalamar’s chest. The whole experience - the spell first, and then the encounter with the Guardians - had certainly not benefited Raistlin. Now, the dark elf felt his lover's fever burning worse than before. 

“Rest,” whispered Dalamar, lifting the human’s hood to protect his eyes from the light of the Staff and winding a hand behind his neck. “I’m here.” 

The dark elf let himself be lulled by the warmth and familiar scent that emanated from Raistlin’s body. Immediately afterward, without realizing it, they both slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

*** 

Raistlin woke up several hours later, sore from sleeping on the stone floor. Dalamar still embraced him however, so he remained motionless while thinking about the last events. From his position he could see neither Crysania nor Caramon, but he heard their regular breaths. The flames in the fireplace were low, the light coming from the Staff of Magius - uncomfortably stuck under the bodies of the two sorcerers - the only significant source of light. Dalamar’s bloodstone hung from its chain just in front of Raistlin’s face, visible through the neckline of the elf’s robes. 

Once again, Raistlin contemplated the dangerous choice made by Dalamar, from which there was no turning back. The mage felt a tangle of conflicting emotions: fear for Dalamar’s fate; pride for his innate talent; horror for the possible consequences; love for that brave soul who had done all this for him; anger at his reckless disobedience, and relief because not only had Dalamar survived the feat, but he came out stronger. But Takhisis now had a hold on Dalamar too, and although the elf continued to devote his loyalty to Nuitari, sooner or later, the Queen of Darkness would request something in return. His lover was now free from the hideous curse cast by Fistandantilus- but what awaited him in the future? 

Raistlin touched the skin of Dalamar’s chest. He remembered how the gray scars were barely noticeable now, and no longer painful for the elf. 

The memory of the noise, smell, and tactile sensation of Dalamar’s skin, burning and sizzling under his fingertips, assailed Raistlin. His windpipe closed, suddenly dry, and a painful cough shook the wizard. The closer he went to his original time, the higher the toll on his health would be. 

Dalamar’s hand closed on his, squeezing it, while the cough still shook Raistlin’s body. “I have to get up,” the wizard whispered, his throat parched, “I need to prepare my tea.” 

Dalamar, his body stiff, rose wearily. “I’ll handle that. I’m surprised you have it here with you,” he murmured. 

Raistlin coughed again and switched to telepathy. _I expected it could come back._

Raistlin had recovered the necessary ingredients in Istar, secretly hoping that he would never, ever need them again. But such a naive hope could not live long: better to forget those silly illusions and walk with his eyes wide open and fixed on the steep road ahead. 

Dalamar looked thoughtfully at the sleeping figures of their companions. “We can’t keep them in this magical sleep state for too long, or we’ll risk killing them.” 

With difficulty, Raistlin shifted. “They are about to wake up. We must organize quickly.” 

“Dalamar?” called Crysania. 

_Not fast enough_ , came the dry thought from the dark elf. “I’m here,” Dalamar said. He took the bag of herbs that Raistlin handed him, and went to retrieve something from a pile of clutter near the hearth. 

Crysania sat up, clutched her makeshift blanket, glanced at the Silvanesti, and then looked for Raistlin, who pretended to sleep. She got up and took an awkward step towards the fireplace intending to revive the flames, but then stopped as if she didn’t know how. The elf stepped beside her, retrieved the rusty poker, and pushed other pieces of furniture between the embers, blowing gently until new tongues of flame appeared. 

“Thanks,” she murmured while watching him work. “How’s your wound?” 

“Better, thank you, my lady,” Dalamar replied politely in an equally low voice. “Your intervention saved my life.” 

“Remember, eventually you’ll have to choose between good and evil. It is not too late to return to Paladine’s light,” she replied, her tone a ringing rebuke. While adjusting the folds of her robes, she fortunately didn’t see the glare the elf gave her. 

_By the Abyss,_ Raistlin thought, _those two are dangerous together._

*** 

About half an hour later, Dalamar was trying to study his spellbook, but the ongoing discussion among Crysania and Caramon kept distracting him. 

Nearby Raistlin sipped his potion in silence, watching his brother and the priestess. Not far away, Crysania was bent over Caramon, speaking softly but relentlessly to him. The big man was still tied up tightly like a piglet, thanks to Nuitari. 

“I forgive you,” Crysania said, her hands resting on the warrior’s cheeks, “because Paladine’s path shines with light. Only the power of forgiveness can heal the wounds of the one who has been attacked, and the soul of his attacker. Do you understand what I mean? Listen to me! I’ll make you rue this heinous error!”

Caramon stared at her intently, confusion in his eyes, as a single wrinkle of concentration crossed his forehead. His wrists were red and encrusted with blood, a sign that he had tried to free himself while nobody was watching him. 

The murmuring of the priestess continued. It was meaningless to Dalamar, but something was breaking through Caramon’s mind because his gaze was becoming more and more involved. At one point, he replied in a hoarse voice. 

“No! No, lady, I didn’t want to kill the elf... It was just to give him a lesson! It’s just that... it was all so confusing there!” 

“Paladine does not wish the deaths of those you hate. Leave your demons behind and cross through! The kingdom of heaven welcomes those who seek forgiveness! So, accept heaven’s grace! My prayers are with you, Caramon. The Gods do not always show us an easy path so that we can grow and understand life more consciously ...” Crysania was already replying as if reciting a manual of questions and answers for heavy assault clerics. 

“I just wanted to protect my brother,” Caramon roared as he squirmed on the dirty floor. 

Dalamar and Raistlin remained perfectly still. The elf did not know whether to hope that Crysania would persuade Caramon to let go of his aggressive instincts, or maybe the warrior would explode and attack the priestess. If anything, it would give the elf an excuse to kill him swiftly... 

_No, I know what I want,_ Dalamar said to himself ruefully _. I would like to kill him slowly, with creativity._

The woman’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, the sound muffled by dust and the lurking darkness. “Indeed. Think about it! Do you realize that for his most difficult journey, your brother chose you as his bodyguard - his companion and protector? Don’t you understand that this is your opportunity to prove yourself and demonstrate your love for him?” 

Caramon lowered his head, hiding his face behind his dirty curls. “Untie me, please.” 

“Not yet, Caramon Majere. I already forgave your confused heart, but I can’t forget the fact that you attacked not only me but Raistlin and his apprentice too! Do you realize that your actions were exactly the opposite of what we all expected of you?” she asked in a tone that managed to be severe and petulant at the same time. 

“I didn’t want to attack you, lady...” the other replied hesitantly, “it’s just that we needed Raist to wake up, and...” 

Raistlin jerked as if intending to speak, but Dalamar cut him off, squeezing his arm quietly. _Let’s see how that works out,_ he whispered telepathically. 

“... don’t you think that a Daughter of Paladine may be much wiser than a warrior - albeit an experienced one - when it comes to handling ghosts and undead creatures?,” Crysania went on. “You disrespected my church, as well as me as a person!” 

“Sorry... sorry, but I thought ...” 

“Caramon Majere, please let me and Raistlin take care of the planning and strategy. You put all of us in danger with your reckless actions!” Crysania’s voice was cold and peremptory; no longer frightened, she was a proud and righteous priestess, scolding a prisoner. 

“Repent before it is too late! Listen to the voice of God!"

Incredibly, it was working. Caramon was calmer, more concentrated. Two splashes of color had appeared on his cheeks, and he hung upon her words. 

But Caramon shook his head, furrowing his brow. “You and my brother are so taken by your grand plan, that you don’t realize that there is a traitor among us,” he said passionately. His eyes repeatedly darted between Crysania and Dalamar, the latter of whom was staring at him intensely. The elf’s lids dropped a little, as if saying: _Don’t worry, sooner or later, I’ll deal with you as you deserve_. 

Dalamar took a deep breath to calm down. _Do you think he’s going to bring up our relationship?_ He silently asked Raistlin. 

_No,_ the mage replied, _he won’t. Not as long as he believes that I can truly be “cured” thanks to Crysania’s love. He would not jeopardize Crysania’s infatuation for me with a declaration which would surely be looked upon with disapproval, if not outright contempt._

 _If only he had the brain to process such elaborate reasoning,_ muttered the dark elf. 

“I’m telling you again, Dalamar is dangerous!” cried Caramon, now looking everywhere except into Crysania’s eyes. He was so absorbed by his words that his face was bright red. “He will always pull Raistlin toward darkness, away from you!” The warrior’s eyes, small, beady and evil, turned to Dalamar. 

“My brother wore white robes once! Then Dalamar came into his life, and Raist became a black robe like him! The elf has led him astray!” 

Crysania turned to look at the two wizards, curiously scrutinizing their faces as she processed that new piece of information. 

“I find your confusion fascinating, my brother,” intervened Raistlin. If you want, I can make you a drawing to explain what happened to the color of my robes. I chose to wear black robes two years ago and yet we’ve both known Dalamar for ten years. Remember?” 

“Raistlin,” said Crysania in a vibrant voice, shaking her head and pointing to Caramon. “I’ve seen it happen before, with relatives of criminals and, uh...well.” She blushed. “People look for excuses to deny the wrong choices of those they love, often by blaming someone else.” 

“No! It is not so!” Caramon bellowed, shifting uncomfortably under the ties. “Dalamar has another goal...”

“Be quiet!” she bristled at his words, “you don’t realize that I’m right!” Then, in a quieter tone, she continued: “You must not be ashamed of your love for your twin! But I’m the only one who can cross his dark path… It is right to feel sorry for his choice to walk in the darkness, but it is not right to take it out on others. Of course,” continued the priestess with a glance of involuntary contempt for Dalamar, “a black-robed dark elf is an understandable scapegoat, but I have found that in this young wizard, Raistlin has found a loyal servant.” 

“Servant!” Caramon exclaimed, squirming. “Or rather a...” then he shut up, blushing. Crysania watched him, waiting to see if he would continue. 

Dalamar heard Raistlin’s mental voice. _I can handle it if Caramon tells more than he should. But... How much do you want me to say?_

The elf swallowed as he imagined that unpleasant scenario. _We could talk about my past in Tarsis,_ he suggested mentally, _to misdirect her from poking into our relationship._

Raistlin glanced at him and remained silent. 

_We have only one goal_ , Dalamar added, _to return to our present. Everything else doesn’t matter._

Raistlin sighed quietly. _Yes. But don’t worry,_ Shalori _,_ he added confidently _, I’m probably worried about nothing. Look at him. Caramon won’t tell Crysania about our past together._

Dalamar shifted and adjusted his hold on the spellbook. _I hope so. It would be... problematic for both of us, especially you._

Raistlin observed Crysania and Caramon in silence. _He still hopes that Crysania can redeem me,_ the wizard thought. _He still hopes I can love her as much as she loves me. Even that oaf can understand that if he tells Crysania that I had a relationship with another man for years, she would no longer be able to look at me with the same eyes. He thinks she would feel repulsion, as much as Caramon has always felt for the two of us._

_You are probably right. Let’s wait to see what happens,_ Dalamar replied. 

Crysania was regarding the elf with a strange and sympathetic expression on her face. 

“Servant,” she repeated, “of commendable devotion. A sentiment that unites several of us, Caramon Majere. You should see it by yourself: each of us does what he can to follow his heart, marching towards higher purposes…” She got up and walked towards Raistlin, evidently about to proclaim the rest of her boastful but timely speech. 

_Very well,_ Raistlin commented inside Dalamar’s head. 

_I have just become the servant who has an impossible love for his master,_ replied the dark elf, amused. 

_This could be to our advantage_ , said Raistlin silently. _The important thing is that she continues to believe that you have no hope of conquering my heart._

_Do what you must,_ was Dalamar’s curt reply. 

Raistlin got up, helping himself with the Staff. Dalamar remained seated, trying to take on a humble demeanor, and peered out of the corner of his eye to Caramon. 

The big man had a confused and amazed expression on his face, totally incapable of understanding the critical shift in the balance of power that had just happened. He watched Crysania, unable to reply to her last statement about higher purposes but enthralled by the scene. 

Raistlin straightened up and reached out to Crysania with a majestic gesture. 

“And will you march alongside me towards these higher purposes, Reverend Daughter?” he asked solemnly in a controlled voice. 

The priestess took another step and put her hand in his, her eyes sparkling with suppressed emotion. 

“Paladine’s light shines on me,” she replied, “and through me, on us.” 

Raistlin squeezed her hand gently - although encouraging her was a double-edged blade - then simulated a cough attack that unfortunately became real. The spasms were violent, noisy, and disturbing. He bent over himself, and Dalamar got up to support him. But Raistlin pushed him away with a blatant angry gesture and took a step forward to lean heavily on Crysania. 

The dark elf, realizing the need for Raistlin’s move, dropped his hands, slipped them into the sleeves of the robe, and took on an inconspicuous air, concentrating instead on telepathy. 

_You are such a sly bastard,_ he commented fondly, amused by the act. 

_Modestly..._ replied Raistlin, one sleeve pressed over his mouth while he leaned on Crysania’s shoulder. She swayed under his weight as she tried to hold him upright, and made a commanding gesture with her chin towards Dalamar, pointing to an armchair. 

_Refrain from lashing out, and please cooperate,_ Raistlin commented silently. 

Dalamar repressed a smirk. _I know, I know_ , he replied, then took the armchair and dragged it closer. 

Caramon struggled, still tied to the floor. “Untie me! I can help! I know what Raist needs, I can move him to the chair!” 

Crysania turned abruptly, a fierce look on her face - all the while supporting Raistlin’s hesitant steps. 

“Repent for your actions, Caramon Majere!”. 

He blinked, astonished. 

“Repent and swear that you will never raise a hand against the three of us again. I will judge the sincerity of your intent!” she added severely. 

Caramon glanced sideways at his twin as if silently asking him what strange woman he had decided to associate with. As if it deserved even that bit of complicity. 

Raistlin sat on the armchair and leaned back in exhaustion, ignoring his twin and crumbling again in another unfortunately real coughing fit. Crysania put her hands on his shoulders, then glanced at the bound warrior with arrogance. 

“Release me!” repeated the big man. 

“Repent!” Crysania insisted. 

“Yes, yes, I repent, all right?” the other replied hastily, frowning. 

“Your repentance is not sincere, Caramon Majere,” proclaimed the priestess, turning her back on him. “Think better about what you want to do.” 

Dalamar had meanwhile recovered the small pot beside the fireplace. He refilled it with the last of the water evoked by the cleric and bent over the fire to hang it on the hook. Raistlin was stalling, his eyes half-closed and one hand on his chest, his breathing slow. 

_How will this story end?_ Dalamar asked, without looking at Raistlin. 

_Well. It’ll be fine. Caramon has always reacted well to despotic women._

_Will I have to get bossed around by Crysania too?_

_No. You must become her best friend. You saw what happened in her little brain. She sensed that you care about me, but she thinks it is a tragic unrequited love. Try to reinforce the “unrequited” part while you’re here. We cannot risk losing her support._

Dalamar sighed and didn’t answer. 

Greenedera

___________________

Next chapter: Brothers' reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 31/10/2020  
> Thanks to @WishyWish for the amazing beta of this chapter and the help with the translation.  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal." IN this particular chapter I quoted Fistandantilus' dialog with Raistlin from Skull Bearer's fic.


	23. Brothers’ reconciliation

Raistlin awoke, realising he had dozed off on the armchair. Crysania was looking at him with adoring and worried eyes. 

When their gazes met, she put a hand over one of his. “I just wish I could ease your pain,” she whispered gently. 

Raistlin retracted his hand and went through one of his pouches. He took out a small bag of herbs and handed it to her. She looked at it with curiosity. “Two pinches of leaves in boiling water,” he whispered. “Thank you for asking, my lady.” 

Crysania seemed to light up from within. Smiling, she hurried away to prepare the infusion. Luckily, she didn’t see Dalamar’s sour expression behind her back; the elf was standing by the hearth with his hands folded in the sleeves of his tattered robe. Raistlin noticed he was slightly favouring his injured left side. 

“Uhm... Raist?” came a deep hesitant voice from the shadows.

The other three turned their attention to Caramon, still laying on the cold floor and tied up like a piglet. The man had rolled to the edge of darkness – probably while attempting to free himself - and now lay face down in the dust. “Raist, can you tell them to release me, please?” 

“I find it highly fascinating that you are asking me this, my brother,” the mage answered with a hoarse voice, barely audible. “May I remind you of your attack against us while we were in Istar, or have you already forgotten?” 

Caramon squirmed uncomfortably at hearing those words. “Raist, look, I’m sorry, alright? I got carried away...” he said, blushing and lowering his eyes. “All that confusion, all those deaths...” 

“You have disappointed me, my brother,” declared Raistlin coolly. “Crysania and Dalamar are under my protection. And like I told you in Istar, I want you by my side as a bodyguard. Do you think a bodyguard can attack those he’s supposed to protect? Think it over and answer.” 

Caramon remained silent.

Raistlin stood up, relying heavily on his Staff. Leaving Dalamar and Crysania near the fire, he stepped closer to Caramon, the Staff of Magius tapping quietly on the floor, the velvet robes rustling around his ankles. He stopped near his brother, looking down on him, Caramon’s face beside his boots. 

“Answer, my brother,” Raistlin repeated in a dangerously persuasive tone.

“No,” murmured his twin, sulking like a child. Then he looked up defiantly, his chin dirty from the dust he lay in.

“But I did it for your good! Can’t you see that Dalamar is corrupting you? I bet he was the one suggesting you hold me prisoner in the Arena...” 

Raistlin beat his Staff loudly on the floor and lashed out angrily, his words hissing like venom. “Once again, you try to turn Dalamar into a scapegoat, Caramon. Do you really believe that in the last few days before the Cataclysm, during my preparation for the spell to travel through time, I had time to follow what was happening in the Arena? Or in the temple kitchens? Or in the guard’s laundry room? Or that I would have Dalamar follow such things? Don’t you think a spell of this magnitude was a little more important than the gladiator’s quarrels? I thought you were old enough to handle them on your own.” 

“But Arak said...” 

“Did you trust Arak? The slaver?” 

A pause. “No, but I don’t know if I should trust you, either,” Caramon said with a disappointed tone. “As long as you walk around in the company of _that_ abomination.” 

“Do you remember what I wrote in the last letters we exchanged, Caramon, in this regard?” Raistlin asked in a lower voice, increasingly fed up with that situation but determined to complete his task. 

The man’s forehead wrinkled for the effort to remember. “Yes, that...” 

“Well,” Raistlin interrupted. “Keep that in mind, and please do not intervene further by taking the initiative.” 

“I... all right, Raist. But be careful.” 

Raistlin turned on his heels and returned to his chair beside the fire, where he sat again. “I suggest you do the same, my brother. Now, I think you have something to say to this lady,” Raistlin concluded, making an elegant gesture in Crysania’s direction. 

The priestess recovered herself from the contemplation of the scene and straightened up with an air of importance. She checked Raistlin’s eyes, then she lifted her chin and looked at Caramon. 

“Caramon Majere. Do you regret your actions against me, a Reverend Daughter of Paladine, your own twin brother, and his apprentice?” 

“Yes! I swear,” thundered Caramon, his eyes glistening. “I swear I didn’t mean to! It’s just that the last few days in the Arena have been so terrible and so violent... I have nothing against you, my lady! Quite the opposite! And not even against Raist, he knows I love him!” 

“You must swear not to harm the dark elf, too, Caramon. I understand that you know each other for a long time, and your conviction that he had a bad influence on your brother makes understandable your anger. After all, you tell me he’s always been devoted to the dark forces. But tell me this: you, that know Raistlin so well - do you think that anyone could influence him in making his own decisions?” 

_Does she realise what she’s saying?_ Dalamar’s telepathic question to Raistlin was quiet and discreet. 

_That, consequently, I wouldn’t be influenced by her, either? Dalamar, you know she’s a fool_ , the archmage answered caustically. _Now, concentrate and tell me what you’re sensing, ‘apprentice’._

The sudden amazement of the elf reverberated along their mental contact. _Are you manipulating her,_ Shalafi, _aren’t you_? 

_Admire the work of a master_ , replied Raistlin smug. He was barely touching the woman’s mind, so delicately as to resemble a spider weaving its web. 

“Yes, yes, I understand, lady,” Caramon grumbled rudely. “I swear I won’t hurt the elf... Unless he attacks me first. Or he tries to hurt Raist.” 

Crysania regarded the man, then nodded. She turned suddenly towards Dalamar. 

“Dalamar of the Black Robes. Now that you listened to these words, are you willing to forgive Caramon for his actions dictated by his error in judgment?” 

The elf stiffened. _Raistlin, this woman is insane._

_Indulge her, please._

_She’s a raging lunatic! She’s going to drag us all down with her!_

_Indulge. Her. Now! – Please, my_ Shalori _._

“I never attacked Caramon,” replied Dalamar in a crisp, cold tone. Then he added, in a low voice. “And I would never harm my _Shalafi_.” 

“I didn’t ask that, although I appreciate what you said. Do you forgive Caramon for attacking you?” asked Crysania relentlessly. 

With a glare at Raistlin - promising complaints once in private - the elf looked at Caramon and made a forceful smile. “I forgive you, Caramon,” he said through gritted teeth. 

The warrior grimly stared back at him. 

“Caramon Majere, if you have a conscience - as I would expect from a Hero of the Lance - you will understand that we all expect only an irreproachable behaviour from you,” declared Crysania. 

“Yes, I promise,” Caramon muttered. “Now untie me.” 

They all stood still, then Crysania looked at Dalamar and nodded. “Proceed.” 

The Silvanesti fidgeted uncomfortably. _Raistlin... I-_

The archmage shifted on the armchair ever so slightly, retrieving from a hidden pouch a spell component. _I got your back,_ Shalori _. If Caramon tries anything, I’ll hit him before he can even touch you._

With cautious and somewhat stiff movements, Dalamar approached Caramon, watching him intensely. The giant warrior stared back at the elf in silence, then turned his gaze toward Raistlin and remained perfectly still.

The dark elf leaned down behind the man, pulled out the dagger and cut the ropes around his feet. Once he finished undoing the knots on his arms, Caramon sat up massaging his injured wrists with a grunt. 

Dalamar quickly moved away, but Caramon just frowned at the trio. “Now. Where are we?” he asked.

Raistlin sighed. “We are in Palanthas, my brother, in the Tower of High Sorcery.” 

“And are we in the future? I mean, still in the past, but after?” 

The dark elf shifted his weight from foot to foot but remained silent. Crysania rolled her eyes as if she understood much more. “Exactly,” answered Raistlin. “This lady and I have an important mission, and all we ask is that you give us protection and support. You promised to do this in Istar. Will you keep your word?” 

“Do I have a choice? I understand that without the device of Par-Salian, I cannot go home.” 

“Exactly, you can’t. I certainly don’t have the energy to send you back to Solace right now,” answered Raistlin coldly. 

Caramon looked away and shrugged. After a few seconds of silence, Raistlin spoke. “Very well. I knew I could ‘count’ on you,” he said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “As you can see, during this epoch, the Tower is in a state of neglect. We need food and other necessities. You’re going into town to buy them.” 

Caramon looked up suspiciously. “And you? Where will you go?” 

“We will stay here, of course. I must rest, my apprentice is still wounded, and this lady must devote herself to prayer to enter into communion with her God,” Raistlin concluded, pressing his lips together and holding back a denigrating smile. 

Caramon glanced at Dalamar but pretended not to see him. “Alright,” the big man said, getting up and shaking the dust off, “I’m going.” 

“Wait,” Raistlin stopped him in a hoarse whisper. _What an idiot-_ “I doubt you have enough coins. Take this.” The archmage said, handing his brother a small bag of money.

Caramon came closer, stretching his arms and massaging his wrists. He retrieved the money and hid it under his belt. 

“Besides,” continued Raistlin, “you have to cross the Shoikan Grove, which surrounds and protects this Tower. Remember what I told you about it in our letters. It’s very dangerous.” 

“Yes, but...” 

“Caramon, bow down here, please. Here, beside me.” 

“You’re asking the wrong one,” muttered Caramon softly. 

Raistlin felt a quick and violent rage surge in him, like a wave of fire burning his entire body. The bile bit his throat, and a growl tried to shake his irritated lungs. He took a breath to calm down and saw that Caramon had taken a step back with an astonished look on his face. 

Fortunately, Crysania hadn’t noticed. Dalamar was distracting her, draping the black tent around her shoulders, since it had fallen off when she had helped the archmage. 

“My brother,” murmured Raistlin through gritted teeth, controlling himself. “I’m exhausted. I can’t stand up, and I have to give you a charm that will get you through the Grove unharmed. It’s just to protect you.” 

“Sorry, Raist,” Caramon said, his expression softening. 

_What a tragedy if he died crossing the Grove_ , Dalamar commented sourly. 

_Don’t tempt me,_ Raistlin answered. He looked at the big man kneeling before him and wondered for what sick twist of his mind he could not plan his murder. Certainly, Fistandantilus had performed far worse acts than murdering a single human, and Raistlin himself had consciously sacrificed that Qualinesti elf in Istar, not to mention the many enemies he had killed in battle, before and during the War of the Lance. And yet - somewhere inside of him were still some morals. 

Could he afford the luxury of morality? _Fo_ _r now, Caramon is useful to us_ , he thought. _But once I don’t need him anymore, death won’t be enough: he attacked Dalamar. I’m going to use him, and then I’m going to get rid of him in the worst way I can devise. More importantly, I need to keep an eye on him, so I can..._

JUST KILL HIM. 

The thought chilled Raistlin straight through.

The mage concentrated carefully. He had not heard Dalamar’s mental voice, and indeed not Crysania’s or Caramon’s. Could it be... could it be an echo of Fistandantilius? In the same way that he sometimes felt the form of his reasoning?

Raistlin continued trying to listen as his mind ran through more likely possibilities. 

Silence. 

*** 

“Raist? Raist!” 

Raistlin blinked, refocusing his attention on the scene around him. Caramon had put one hand on his knee. Dalamar and Crysania stared at him with concern. Raistlin’s heart was beating quickly and irregularly. What had just happened?

The mage refrained from slapping away Caramon’s hand. Instead, he leaned forward, displaying his best impassive face, and took his brother’s head in his hands. “You would never betray my trust, would you, my brother?” he asked, staring into those dull brown eyes. 

Caramon sobbed and shook his head. “Forgive me, Raist! I won’t ruin your plans anymore. You are right; you and I are only a perfect team if you think and I execute. I promise I will never take the initiative again. Let me help you and be at your side! I’ll do anything for you!” he said in a broken voice. 

_I hate you_ , thought the mage bitterly. Feeling not only weak but also deeply troubled, Raistlin merely nodded and forced himself to answer in the only right way: “I’m counting on you, my brother.”

The archmage leaned forward and, touching his brother’s forehead with his lips, deposited the charm necessary to cross the Grove. As the words of the spell flowed and the magic left his lips, Raistlin felt lightheaded. He leaned on the backrest.

YOU COULD HAVE LET THE UNDEAD DEVOUR HIM.

Raistlin remained still, closing his eyes, turning all his attention within himself.

_Who are you?_

Silence.

_Why should I kill him?_

No answer. The mage opened his eyes.

Time had passed. Dalamar stood beside him, a hand placed lightly and discreetly on his shoulder. The elf was looking towards Caramon and Crysania: the two were standing on the room’s threshold. _How long have I been unconscious?_

The dark elf didn’t seem to hear the telepathic question.

“And then the soap,” the priestess was saying to Caramon.

“No disrespect intended, m’ lady, but there are more important...”

“Soap, I said. Buy the cheapest one if you have to, but buy it! I will not bear the stench of blood and sweat, Caramon Majere, nor remain dirty like I am now.” Her tone did not allow for disobedience. 

Caramon muttered something unintelligible while the woman continued speaking. “And two... no, three changes of clothes. For you, for me, and something for Dalamar.” 

A grunt. “Food for how many days?”. 

“I...” the woman hesitated. 

“For a week,” Raistlin intervened, making Dalamar flinch in surprise. The other two turned and joined them. 

“Raist! Are you well?” boomed Caramon, interrupting Crysania, who was about to speak in turn. 

“Yes. I’m just tired,” said the mage, hiding his discomfort. What had happened? Had he fainted? He retrieved the Staff of Magius and leaned on it to get up. Dalamar stayed close to him without intervening. 

“Spend your money wisely, my brother,” said Raistlin, “and buy a sword. Now, follow me.” 

“No, stay here... don’t strain yourself, rest!” 

“How will you cross the Tower without my light?” retorted Raistlin, “Walk close to me.” 

The archmage took a cautious step, expecting to sway, but he was able to move without problems. What was happening to him? He opened the door, revealing the oily darkness outside. A few pairs of disembodied eyes winked and drifted away. 

“Why did the ghosts attack us?” asked Crysania, appearing at his side. “In our time, the guardians of your Tower were scary, but they would stay on their own.” 

“It’s because we’ve travelled through time,” whispered Raistlin patiently, reaching the stairwell and starting the descent to the base of the tower. He checked on the others: Caramon was right behind him, while Crysania and Dalamar followed some steps behind.

“The guardians did not yet know me as their master, and they obeyed the last orders received: defend the Tower from intruders. But now it has been clarified: they will not harm us.”

“You should not surround yourself with such terrible creatures,” murmured Crysania, hugging herself and looking at the ghosts with caution. 

“All the important places in the world have a means of defence. Even the temples of the gods of light have magical protectors and guardians.” 

“Only against those who carry evil within themselves,” the woman commented passionately, her eyes bright, lit with fervour, contemplating distant places. 

SO BEAUTIFUL. 

Raistlin missed a step, stumbled, and risked falling down the flight of stairs leading them to the Tower’s base. He frantically waved his Staff to recover his balance, but Caramon grabbed him by the waist and held him back. 

Raistlin regained his balance, then rested a few seconds on a step, breathing with difficulty, on the verge of a coughing fit that did not come. 

_What in the Abyss was that? What is happening to me? Is this Fistandantilus? Should I tell Dalamar or not?_ Raistlin had promised the dark elf that there would have been no more secrets between them. But wouldn’t it terrify Dalamar to hear that Raistlin thought he heard a voice in his head? 

“Are you all right, Raist?” Caramon asked.

“He must be exhausted. Perhaps I should go ahead,” Crysania intervened, passing him by. 

“I’m fine,” Raistlin bit back. “Let’s continue.”

The mage resumed the descent, paying more attention to the steps and listening carefully if he heard that voice again. He could no longer find that “thoughts” that felt foreign and yet not entirely, that ephemeral presence. At the base of the Tower, eight guardians were waiting for them, but as the living approached, they retreated respectfully. 

“Open the door,” Raistlin commanded. 

The Dead Ones obeyed, and the Tower’s double doors opened wide on the gloomy courtyard. The day was grey, the sky darkened by a blanket of clouds laden with impending rain, yet the brightness was almost blinding after the building’s pervading darkness. The paved courtyard was cluttered with waste: pieces of furniture and wagons, wooden boards and decomposed books of which only the covers remained; random remnants of the hasty departure of the wizards during the Lost Battles.

The archmage remembered seeing the same objects when Fistandantilus, wearing Raistlin’s body, had claimed the Tower right after the War of the Lance. _Curious how this detail is clear in my mind despite the fragmented memories I have inherited._

Raistlin nodded to a Guardian. “You will accompany this man to the Grove’s edge, making sure he gets there unharmed. Wait for his return and accompany him back to me,” he commanded, speaking loudly to benefit those present. 

_Yes, Master._

“Go, my brother,” said Raistlin, turning to his twin. 

“Alright, Raist. My lady, goodbye,” Caramon responded, nodding his head at Crysana and entering the Grove in the spectre’s wake. 

The gates of the Tower closed behind him with a booming thud. 

*** 

“So we’re about to enter the Abyss?” asked Crysania, with a resolute expression on her face. “In seven days?” 

They had returned to the study, where the warmth of the fireplace had welcomed them. Caramon would be back in a few hours. Raistlin glanced at Dalamar, who returned his gaze with a worried look. _What did you say to her while you two were alone?_

The dark elf did not answer but looked at him questioningly. Raistlin approached Crysania, who had gone to warm her hands near the fire. 

“First of all, we will rest,” Raistlin said quietly. “ _Dwoshi._ ” He caught Crysania in his arms when she fell unconscious. Better if their only cleric didn’t fall into the hearth. 

“Help me, please,” he called, but Dalamar had already rushed to assist him. They deposited Crysania onto the armchair. 

“What’s going on, Raistlin?” asked the dark elf, draping the black curtain around the woman to keep her warm. 

Raistlin watched him closely. “What exactly are you trying to ask me?” 

The dark elf approached, wary. “Your mind is closed, I can’t reach you with telepathy,” he said, taking Raistlin’s hand and squeezing it gently. 

_What?_ Raistlin frowned. “Wait,” he said, as his heartbeats accelerated. The mage concentrated on his mind, on his mental barriers, and found them raised. His brain was a closed and barricaded fortress. 

Raistlin opened up his mind to Dalamar’s with a conscious effort, looking carefully for other signs of that strange voice... 

_Dalamar?_

_I’m right here._

Raistlin released the breath he’d been holding. He brought the elf’s hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss to the silky knuckles. 

_You locked me out of your mind_ , Dalamar said, hurt, staring at him intensely with his eyes as bright and grey as steel. 

“I wasn’t aware of it,” Raistlin apologised in a low voice, glancing away. “Must be the fatigue.” 

The dark elf put an arm behind Raistlin’s back, drawing him near, and embraced him with a sigh. Raistlin sank into Dalamar’s arms, leaning in to kiss the elf’s lips lightly. The Silvanesti returned the kiss without any hurry. Raistlin sank into it eagerly, his hand travelling up Dalamar’s back. 

The dark elf captured Raistlin’s lips again once before resting his head on Raistlin’s shoulder. 

Raistlin’s thumb rubbed soothing circles into Dalamar’s back. He stayed quiet while letting the elf’s physical presence lull him, but couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. How could he have locked Dalamar out of his mind? 

Gently, Raistlin brushed the area where he could feel the bandages under Dalamar’s tattered robes. _How’s your wound?_

_It hurts but is no longer dangerous. It will heal on its own, now._

Raistlin, however, had felt the edge of something else lacing Dalamar’s thoughts. _Are you thinking of using your bloodstone like in Istar?_

_Perhaps. It would solve the problem and heal me quickly._

_Please don’t. And don’t tell me I’m a moralist; it’s about this timeline. The people of Istar were already doomed, so we could indeed afford to sacrifice a couple of them. But not here. We mustn’t change the past besides what I already plan to do._

_Very well. I won’t try anything, I swear it._

_Good._

Raistlin desired just to cuddle somewhere quiet and stay like this, taking comfort in each other’s presence. After the last complex events, during which they had repeatedly risked their lives, It would have been nice to rest in peace, without Crysania and Caramon in the way. But, of course, life was always more complicated than that. As long as Caramon was away and Crysania was asleep, they needed to complete other tasks. 

Raistlin kissed Dalamar’s forehead and sighed. Their eyes warred with one another, neither letting up. Then a crease marred the skin between the elf’s eyes. _It will be challenging to manage Crysania and Caramon. Be careful_ , he said, letting his concern seep through their mental contact. 

Raistlin brushed his lips on the elf’s. _Indeed, it will be, but things are going pretty well so far. I don’t think Caramon will turn against us again._

Dalamar flashed a bitter smile. _I’ll still watch my back._

_Yes, that’s probably for the best._

HE SHOULD LEAVE.

Raistlin’s heart fell, but he pulled himself together quickly. Again that foreign voice. He did his best to ignore it until he had time to analyse it better. He freed himself from the embrace with controlled gestures, trying to prevent his breathing from quickening too much. “I need to get to the laboratory at the top of the Tower,” he murmured, straightening up. “Come on. In the meantime, tell me in detail what happened in Istar while we were separated.” 

Dalamar looked away as they left the study behind them and walked into the dark corridor outside. “There’s not much to say. Shortly after you took control over Crysania’s mind, Caramon came out of nowhere in the general uproar and assaulted me, pushing me against the wall and accusing me of the usual things. He called me wizard, dark elf, and so on, and that was enough to spark a riot that involved the guards of the Temple and any idiot that crowded that damn hallway. I managed to block Caramon with a spell, but a guard stabbed me before I could get away and follow Crysania.” 

“So it wasn’t Caramon to wound you, but a guardsman?”

“Yes. Caramon punched me, but I don’t think he would have killed me in that corridor. But I’m not so sure about what could have happened in the dungeon before we left if Crysania hadn’t intervened…” 

Raistlin remained silent, feeling his stomach tie up like a rope. Caramon could have easily killed Dalamar. Of course, in the end, he had just thrown punches, but the result could have been worse and potentially disastrous. And down in the dungeon, just before they left, what would have happened if Crysania hadn’t gotten in Caramon’s way, stopping his attack?

“He will pay,” Raistlin rasped, illuminating the dusty corridor with the light of his Staff. They reached the long winding stair at the centre of the Tower.

“The only thing I wonder is when,” the elf murmured bitterly under his breath.

“When we no longer need him, it’s obvious,” lashed out Raistlin, then bit his tongue. He didn’t want to be rude to Dalamar; it was just all so complicated. He exploded into a ragged coughing fit, curling slightly from the force of it. 

“What have you said to Crysania since we arrived at the Tower?” he asked when he recovered enough to talk and climb the stairs.

“Nothing,” answered the dark elf, pulling aside a cobweb. “She made some assumptions on her own, such as the Portal being into the Tower of Palanthas.” 

“It would be easier if it were,” Raistlin commented, his Staff thudding on the steps. “At least it would already be here. But I’m more and more convinced that we won’t find it. You’ll see.” 

YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING.

Raistlin shook his head to banish the thought. He glanced at Dalamar, who climbed the stairs trailing a hand on the wall.

“What are you going to tell Crysania?” the elf asked.

Raistlin licked his dry lips. “It all depends on what we find upstairs.”

YOUR DOOM.

They continued their climbing in a heavy silence.

_Greenedera_

________________

Next chapter: The Voice

Pic: Raistlin and Dalamar - corridor of the Tower from my [Deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/elenazambelli/gallery/65374033/raistlin-majere-dragonlance)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 09/11/2020   
> Thank you @rubiniachangemadness for the amazing BETA and help with the translation!  
> \---  
> Atemporal is an alternate finale to Skull Bearer's fic "Temporal."  
> \---


	24. The voice

Raistlin and Dalamar reached the small door of the laboratory at the top of the Tower. A cold draft was wafting up from the stairwell that made their hair flutter and the hem of their black cloaks sway. The two mages stopped on the landing to catch their breath after the long climb. The current of air hissed ominously, awakening dark presences even more ancient than the Dead Ones. 

“Later, you will show me that wound,” commented Raistlin, observing how the elf remained slightly bent on one side. 

“Very well,” murmured Dalamar wearily. His handsome face, framed by the dark hair, was paler than usual. 

HE’S JUST A BURDEN. 

Raistlin clenched his teeth and made a silent grimace, bowing his head and hiding his face. _No, this thought is not mine. Dalamar is not a burden, he’s my love. He did his best in Istar to help me. It must be someone else talking in my head!_

HE HAD ONE TASK AND STILL MANAGED TO MAKE A MESS. 

The voice hissed ominously this time, echoing the darkest thoughts in the farthest corners of Raistlin’s mind, the ones he did not even dare to think.

 _Why is this happening to me?_ The archmage had no idea what it meant and loathed to think about it. He tried to calm his own rapid breathing. Yes, Dalamar should have avoided getting involved in the events of Istar; instead, he had got into a fight with Caramon and the guards. Yes, Dalamar should have gone back to the present right after he and Raistlin were reunited... indeed, it would have been better if he had remained in the present, and possibly away from everything regarding Raistlin. And yet all this did not justify that cruel thought. Dalamar had acted out of love and a desire for revenge. Raistlin had no reason to blame him. 

“Are you ready?” the dark elf inquired. 

“Yes, let’s go,” the wizard answered quickly, opening the door and entering the laboratory. _Damn. I need a clear head to survive this mess._

Inside the room, everything was motionless and silent. Upon breathing the laboratory’s mold and stale air, Raistlin felt a sickening feeling of dizziness as the old Lich’s memories overlapped with what he saw. He had a glimmer of how the room had been in its distant and glorious past and of how it would be like in the bleak future after the War of the Lance and all the in-betweens. He took a few moments as he gathered his thoughts.

Dalamar’s hand squeezed his arm, and Raistlin snapped back to reality. He lifted the Staff of Magius and summoned a brighter light. Dalamar conjured a globe as well that flared to life banishing the thick darkness from around them. Raistlin strode towards the bottom of the room, there was no need to prolong the wait. 

The light reflected on vases, jars, books, and scroll cases. The Black Robes crossed the laboratory, turning around a massive library. In the farthest corner of the room, the light reflected on the bare stone wall and the faded edge of a mark on the floor. They could distinctly see the faint outline on the paving slabs where the Portal and its pedestal had stood for hundreds of years - like on a wall from which a painting was missing, the empty spot was desolate and forlorn. 

_Of course_ the Portal was missing. 

Raistlin knew what he should have found: a huge oval door, standing upon a raised dais, ornamented by five dragon heads, their sinuous necks snaking up from the floor, the five heads faced inward, five mouths open, screaming a silent tribute to their Queen. 

“Of course, there’s nothing here,” Raistlin commented unnecessarily. 

Dalamar put a hand on the human’s side. “You predicted it/guessed it right. Now we will go - or you will go - to Astinius and find out its location. We already know what to expect, don’t we?” 

Raistlin shook his head. “I always wonder how much free will I delude myself to have. All this has happened before.”

Dalamar gently took Raistlin’s head in his hands, looking at him with worried eyes. “You will succeed. We already know where the junction point between alternative timelines is: at the entrance to the Abyss. We just have to get there.” 

HE’S A FOOL. 

Raistlin shuddered, feeling cold and tired. He tried to slow down the wild beating of his heart. Something was still not right about all of this. Dalamar did not understand how Raistlin would have preferred to find more differences between his memories and reality, something that indicated that he could unravel the Law of Temporal Necessity ever so slightly for his own purposes.

Dalamar let go of Raistlin's head, a bitter and enigmatic expression on his face. “You’re doing it again,” he said pointedly. 

“What?” the human asked sharply.

“You locked me out. You’re isolating yourself from me. It keeps reminding me of that period, during the War of the Lance, in which I couldn’t read your expression. And now, as then, you’ve shut me out of your mind.” Dalamar kept glancing away, probably fighting against painful memories.

The archmage concentrated and realized that he had once again raised his mental barriers. Cautiously, he reopened to mental contact with Dalamar, but he felt too exposed, too vulnerable. “It must be fatigue,” he said. 

“Raistlin,” insisted the dark elf. “I have to tell you, as long as we’re alone. It’s like you’re listening to someone else, and I just want to know... Tell me, what’s going on?” He then peered carefully into Raistlin’s eyes, trying to remain impassive despite the intense emotions shaking him. 

Raistlin looked at the elf once again, and his face burned with anger.“I don’t know,” he answered through clenched teeth. 

“Please,” said Dalamar in a different, younger, more vulnerable voice. “No secrets between us.” 

Raistlin walked to the faded stain left on the stone floor by the disappearance of the Portal, observing its contours. “I can’t keep secret what I don’t know,” he replied after a few seconds. 

“Maybe...” sighed Dalamar, approaching Raistlin but without seeking physical contact. “Just... don’t lock me out. I wouldn’t exclude you from your mind, for any reason. We have Caramon and Crysania to manage, and we have to work as a team.” 

...BETTER IF HE WASN’T THERE AT ALL.

Raistlin flinched and shut his eyes but at the same time heard Dalamar’s sharp intake of breath. He immediately turned toward the elf and saw that he had backed away and was regarding Raistlin in astonishment. Then the Silvanesti composed rapidly, holding himself together and calming down. 

“I see,” Dalamar said coolly. 

Raistlin realized that he had once again locked Dalamar out in his mind. And yet those thoughts! Dalamar shouldn’t have heard them. Perhaps it was better that Dalamar never entered Raistlin’s mind again.Were those thoughts his own? Or were they extraneous? Well, of course, without Dalamar, all that situation could have been a lot easier... “No, Dalamar, that’s not what I meant, you know,” Raistlin tried to say, but the words came out weak and without conviction. 

The dark elf glanced away. “So, what did you mean, _Shalafi_? What part of ‘if he wasn’t there at all’ did I not understand?” 

“Damn it, Dalamar! There’s a voice in my head!” cried Raistlin, his voice breaking into a shrill scream. He froze, expecting an excess of suffocating cough as when he had felt Fistandantilus’ taloned hands tearing his lungs to shreds. But instead, he stood there, gasping with terror and anxiety, his heart beating fast. 

Dalamar’s face had gone chalk white,  like he was about to throw up. The dark elf held Raistlin’s blue eyes for several moments before he nodded and broke his gaze from the human’s. “A voice... what kind of voice?” he whispered after a few seconds. 

The darkness of the ancient laboratory weighed on them as Raistlin sought the right words. “I don’t know,” the archmage murmured, sitting on a dusty stool and leaning on the Staff of Magius. “It began a little while ago. I hear something… like extraneous thoughts, and short after I realize I’ve locked you out of my mind.” 

Dalamar had stayed where he was, and now his horror-stricken face was half-wrapped in darkness. “Is it _him_?” 

“If it was, I don’t think I could talk about it, like during the War of the Lance. See? I believe that the spirit of Fistandantilus is truly dead,” Raistlin said, savoring the words as he pronounced them: words spoken loudly, without coughing and without floundering in the phlegm. Still, excluding this possibility made the experience even more disturbing. 

“Do you hear it even now?” Dalamar asked with a strained nonchalant tone. 

“When I search for it, no. It intervenes when I least expect it. What did you hear?” Raistlin asked, looking down at the floor, ashamed Dalamar had heard such cruel thoughts from his mind. 

“I heard your mental voice uttering those words,” replied Dalamar softly. 

The human shivered and bowed his head, letting the hem of the blak hood cover his face. 

The dark elf cleared his throat. “Raistlin?” 

They looked at each other for a few seconds, then the elf sat on his hunches in front of the young man and took his hand gently. “Whatever happens, I’m here...” 

… ALWAYS IN THE WAY. 

Raistlin ran a frustrated hand across his forehead, shivering. He shook his head as if to banish the presence haunting his thoughts. 

“Again?” Dalamar immediately asked. 

“I think so," Raistlin whispered.

“What does it say?” 

Raistlin didn’t answer right away. “It doesn’t matter what it says. The point is, who’s talking? And if it’s not the shadow of Fistandantilus, there’s only one other answer that comes to mind.” 

IT’S JUST THE VOICE OF YOUR MADNESS. 

Dalamar didn’t seem to have heard the voice this time, so Raistlin stood still, hiding his nervousness. The dark elf was instead staring at him with a concerned and concentrated expression in his keen almond eyes. He stood up, placed his hands on Raistlin’s temples, and leaned his forehead against his. 

“Say it,” the elf whispered, opening himself entirely to their mind contact. “The name.”

COME ON, SAY IT, the voice echoed, mocking and daring. It rang in Raistlin’s ears, reverberated in his brain with wild, discordant echoes—these words... challenging him. 

Raistlin focused on opening his mind to the dark elf. _What game are you playing?_ Raistlin asked that unseen, amused presence. Then, the voice spoke. 

I AM THE DOME OF THE SKIES. 

Dalamar gasped softly, but stood there, maintaining mental contact. 

I AM THE DEPTHS OF THE EARTH. 

Raistlin and Dalamar shuddered, their hands laced tightly together. 

MY FACES ARE COUNTLESS. 

_Dark Lady, you honor me with your presence_ , Raistlin answered, trying to find out if his suspicions were correct. 

I AM THE COLD TOMB AWAITING FOR YOU, LITTLE MAGE. 

A suspicion that was rapidly becoming a certainty. Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness. Now, Dalamar seemed very far away; Raistlin no longer saw the elf because it was only darkness surrounding him. The darkness of the earth’s womb, the darkness enveloping a coffin buried deep. 

_My Lady. All of us will die sooner or later_ , he was able to stutter as his heart sank. 

YET, BETWEEN FEAR AND FAITH, HOPE AND FAILURE, THERE IS ONLY ONE CHOICE, YOUR ONE STEP. 

_What does the goddess want from me? What is the step she is talking about? What does she know about what happened between me and Fistandantilus? Which of us does she mean to address? To the Fistandantilus that lived this timeline the first time, or to me?_ Raistlin trembled despite himself. 

Raistlin directed his next words to that presence. _I’m not going to challenge you._

YET, HERE YOU ARE. 

Maybe the goddess didn’t know Raistlin wasn’t going to challenge her? The wizard had confused memories of the encounters between Takhisis and Fistandantilus both in the past and during the War of the Lance, but it seemed that the goddess was not omniscient: she couldn’t read his most inner thoughts. 

_Yet I tell the truth. What do you want from me?_

JUST TO PLAY, SILLY LITTLE GOD. COME TO ME!

Raistlin blinked, shaken by an incredible feeling of Deja-Vu. 

COME TO ME. BE HERE WITH ME. 

In the darkness of his closed eyelids, Raistlin saw a veiled woman emerging from the shadows. 

Then darkness reared up and swallowed him. 

*** 

“Therefore, you understand,” whispered Raistlin's quiet voice, “your importance for this short mission, Revered Daughter.” 

Dalamar nervously changed position. He threw a glance at Caramon, who was staring at his twin and the priestess with a dark and concerned expression. 

After Raistlin had lost consciousness in the laboratory, Dalamar had been unable to wake him. Caramon, back from the city, had come looking for them and found the sorcerers at the top of the staircase. Dalamar had feared for his life for the briefest moment, but the big man had just scowled at the elf, scooped Raistlin in his arms, and returned to the study. After one hour, Raistlin had awakened. 

“Raistlin...” Crysania’s voice was quiet and worried, barely audible over the crackling fire. She had knelt on the threadbare carpet, beside Raistlin’s armchair, holding his hands. 

“I feel so weak,” rasped the wizard, then coughed. He quickly recovered and squeezed the hand that Crysania had placed on his arm. “I can trust only you. I can count only on you. My apprentice will stay here to look after me, and the Aesthetics will never admit my brother into the Library.” 

Crysania was frightened at the prospect of walking across the Palanthas of this time; this was evident. She hesitated. 

“I will go with you,” Caramon intervened abruptly, startling everyone. 

The woman gave him a frightened and doubtful look. “I think I can manage that on my own,” she began to protest. 

“Oh, but fear not, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin hissed, staring at his brother with half-lidded eyes. “Caramon now understands his past mistakes, doesn’t he? He would never put you in danger again.” 

The big man blushed furiously. “Sure, Raist. Of course not.” 

“See,” said the archmage, dismissing the matter with an irritated flick of his hand, “all settled. Caramon will be your bodyguard for this short trip.” 

The priestess nervously licked her dry lips before speaking. “And you? What if you faint again?” 

“Let the elf deal with that,” Caramon muttered, standing up with a tinkling of metal and creaking of leather. During the previous tour in the city, he had purchased a second-hand studded leather armor. “Since he cares so much.” 

Dalamar forced himself to remain silent. Once again, like a nervous tic, his mind sought mental contact with Raistlin: nothing. Their last telepathic conversation, ten minutes before, had been rather unpleasant. 

_I must send Crysania to seek an audience with Astinius at the Library of Palanthas. We need to discover where the Portal is_ , Raistlin had said. 

_We already know it’s in Zhaman..._ the elf had tried to reply, but Raistlin’s sharp thought had cut him off. 

_We need evidence._

Dalamar didn’t trust Crysania’s intelligence enough for something complex like that. _But it’s ridiculous! I repeat, let me be the one to go! I know better than her what to ask the Librarian!_

Raistlin’s reply had been harsh. _Y_ _ou are the one being ridiculous now._ _You don’t belong to this time. This information will be given either to Crysania or to me. It’s the Law of Temporal Necessity! Don’t meddle if you don’t understand what we’re talking about._ Then Raistlin’s mental voice had vanished, and the two of them hadn’t spoken privately since, exchanging just sidelong glances and meaningful looks. 

The archmage’s eyes now were bright and cold as glass, reflecting all what they saw, revealing nothing of the thoughts within. 

_Is Takhisis talking in Raistlin’s head even now?_ That thought was ominous and eerie to Dalamar. 

Raistlin accompanied Crysania and Caramon to the door at the base of the Tower, repeating again and again the questions she must ask the Librarian. 

A few minutes later, Raistlin returned and, without uttering a word, lay down in front of the fire on one of the pallets they had prepared after plundering the other chambers of the Tower. 

Although everyone would have appreciated a little privacy - especially Crysania - they had opted to camp in one room, to optimize the resources and heat only one place. The wizard immediately dozed off, his breath coming out of his lungs with laborious hissing sounds. Once in a while, there would be a slight wheeze or cough to the low rattle of damaged breath. 

Dalamar sat next to him and concentrated on studying his book of spells. His stay in Istar had been fruitful, and now his grimoire boasted dozens of new spells and several pages dedicated to rituals. Miraculously – considering the events before their leaving - he had also managed to bring with him a folder of sheets thickly covered with notes on his necromancy research. 

The dark elf was immersed in his study when, half an hour later, he noticed that Raistlin was starting to toss and turn in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible. Then he began to scream. 

Dalamar reached his lover, who had fallen deep in a fever dream. The young man trashed and tossed, and the elf had to restrain him from scratching his face - as if he were trying to tear his own eyes out. 

_Raistlin, what is happening to you?_

*** 

Raistlin awoke with his face pressed against Dalamar’s neck. The elf was embracing him, murmuring words that should have reassured him; instead, they chilled him. “Raistlin, I’m here, come back to me. Come home, come home...” 

A shiver of pure, grim terror shook him. Those words... Why were they so scary? In his nightmare, Raistlin had been caught in the iron-hard grasp of dark dreams and memories. Darkness had been everywhere, and the cold presence of Fistandantilus chilled him down to his bones. At the same time, Raistlin knew - with that stark and absolute awareness that characterized only the most frightening dreams - that the one who held him captive was not Fistandantilus at all, but an older, shriveled and barely recognizable version of himself. Raistlin would fail; he would die in the battle of Zhaman, and in the attempt to escape death, he would become a shadow. This shadow would desperately seek to return home and flee from the clutches of Takhisis and the infinite torment that awaited him in the realm of non-life... in a desperate attempt to save himself, he would grab his younger self. He would cling to it with the despair of a man trying not to drown, at the cost of killing the other one... 

Raistlin only realized that he was gripping the elf’s robes’ fabric tightly, trapping the elf close to him, when Dalamar tried to lay the young man back down onto the pallet. With a conscious effort, he opened his fingers one by one. 

Eventually, Raistlin’s mind cleared up and he was able to truly see his lover’s concerned face. Dalamar’s almond eyes were worried, and a crease marred his forehead. Although his features were still delicate and youthful, dark shadows had appeared under his eyes, and his lips were tight in a tense expression. 

“Sorry.” Raistlin croaked, his breathing raspy. “I’m awake”. 

“Thank Nuitari,” murmured the elf under his breath. He gently brushed a sweat-soaked strand of hair from Raistlin’s face. 

Raistlin sat up, tossing the covers off, and ran a hand through his damp hair. He felt so sweaty that, for a brief instant, he desired to be one of those wizards collecting silly spells to summon cozy interdimensional mansions with luxurious bathrooms.

“How long have I been asleep?” 

Dalamar handed him a cup of water. “Not even half an hour. No matter how fast they are, Crysania and Caramon won’t be back for another two hours.” 

Raistlin sighed and drank, contemplating the book of spells of the other wizard had left open beside them. Then he recovered and cast a tormented glance at Dalamar. 

“I know we should take advantage of this moment to talk about what we heard, up there in the laboratory. But I don’t know what to say.” 

“There’s not much to say, I’m afraid,” replied Dalamar, sitting more comfortably and closing his grimoire with loving fingers. “That voice left no doubt about who it belongs to.” 

“True. Yet… there is something strange.” Raistlin was once again contemplating the book. 

Dalamar’s voice was low. “And what would that be?” 

“She has been tormenting me in my sleep for months. Even now, I spend most of my sleep in the company of her mockery, tortured by visions sent by her. That didn’t sound like her voice to me.” 

Dalamar blinked, letting the information sink. “How strange,” he said slowly, reflecting. 

Raistlin tried to remember once again the sound of that voice. It seemed so vast, so absolute. It wasn’t like hearing a telepathic voice in your mind; it was like hearing a chorus of countless voices echoing in unison. 

“Nevertheless, my observation is without foundation,” continued Raistlin in an even tone. “How can one compare different manifestations of a deity? She is the Queen of Darkness and the Five-Headed Dragon at the same time. She can probably speak to us in any voice she wants.” 

“That’s true. But you’re right; there’s something wrong. Did you hear it again?” The dark elf rubbed his eyes to shake away the tiredness. 

Raistlin shot a glance at the fireplace, remembering. “Yes, once, while I was convincing Crysania to go to Astinus.” 

Dalamar shifted uncomfortably. “Whatever it is, I think you should do your best to ignore it. While I was hearing it, it gave me the impression of being determined to undermine your resolve.” 

Raistlin nodded with a grim expression. “I intend to do so. I’ll raise my mental walls. Although that will mean that we won’t have many private conversations.” 

Dalamar captured his hand and squeezed it. “We’ll make it. The important thing is to know what’s happening.” 

Raistlin took the elf’s fingers to his lips and kissed them one by one. 

Dalamar watched him closely, then murmured with his silky voice: “But, deep down, we never really needed telepathy to be able to read each other’s minds, am I right?” 

Raistlin looked up, his intense eyes glinting with a mischievous spark. “I remember quite well.” 

Suddenly, the air between them was charged with tension, the last fragments of the nightmares and fears that had gripped Raistlin’s heart dissolving like mist in the sun, completely forgotten. All he could think about was the here and now. They were alone. In the Tower. With too little time. 

All Raistlin knew was that the sand in the hourglass always ran too fast, and of all had already passed and had been beautiful, he wanted more. More, to fill the void he felt within, to satiate his shaken heart, to quench the thirst of the worthless creature dwelling within him. 

As Raistlin stared at the dark elf, something changed in the other’s gaze. The almond eyes seemed to become keener and darker, two pits of desperate want as deep as Raistlin’s. 

The two mages embraced each other; their teeth clashed as they kissed hungrily, biting their lips and invading each other’s mouth. Tiredness vanished, replaced by a sparkling joy, by a glorious song of love and desire. 

Dalamar put a hand behind Raistlin’s head, trapping him close, winding his fingers into his hair. Raistlin grabbed the cloth of the elf’s robes, twisting it until they were close, so close. 

Raistlin had closed his eyes, savoring these sensations, then opened them when he felt Dalamar pull away slightly. They looked at each other for a moment, then Raistlin nodded. 

As they walked out of the room, holding hands, directed to one of the dusty bedrooms on the upper floors, Raistlin considered that, in fact, telepathy was unnecessary between them. 

_Greenedera_

_____________

Next chapter: Astinus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 24/11/2020 - Even if things are going a little bad right now, I'm trying to keep going with the editing, the translation, the publication.
> 
> Many thanks to RubiniaChangeMadness for the amazing help with the beta!
> 
> There are some quotes from The Musical here. You can check them in the separate work on my profile.


	25. Astinus

When Crysania and Caramon returned, the two wizards were waiting for them in the study, each one intent on reading their spellbook. Caramon knew the way by now and – preceded by a Guardian – led the priestess to the room without incidents. 

Raistlin had been aware of their coming since they had crossed the borders of Shoikan Grove. He had paced the room nervously, repeatedly asking Dalamar why they took so long to climb the steps – until the dark elf had pointed out he was acting like a fool. So Raistlin had settled down on the chair, but as Crysania entered the room, he got up and went towards her. 

“Speak. Tell me everything,” Raistlin hissed. 

“It... it did not go as I expected,” she murmured, lowering the hood of her cloak. 

A dangerous spark glinted in the eyes of the archmage, who took a step toward the woman. She instinctively backed away. Caramon frowned, and Dalamar ardently hoped the man would mind his own business. 

Crysania swallowed and continued. “When I came in, Astinius crossed something out from his book. Then...” She hesitated, and Raistlin suddenly seemed taller and more menacing: his whole body was tense, like a panther ready to pounce on his prey. 

_ Raistlin, you’re scaring her. Stick to the plan _ , cried Dalamar to the human’s mind. But his companion did not hear him. He was again locked in his mental fortress. Dalamar took a step forward, interposing between them with a humble demeanor, and unclasped Crysania’s cloak. The woman nodded in gratitude to the elf and seemed to pull herself together. 

“He said,” the priestess whispered, “that every man has a price and that you would know what he was talking about. And then to tell you that he can’t wait to find out how... how you choose to ‘play your part.’” 

Raistlin’s eyes were ominous, his face ashen. 

“I prepared a hot drink, Revered Daughter,” Dalamar intervened desperately. “Shall I pour you a cup?” Meanwhile, Caramon had finished stacking their latest purchases in a corner and raised his head to regard his twin with curiosity. 

Raistlin turned on his heels and walked to the armchair in front of the fire. Here he grabbed his cloak and threw it hastily over his shoulders. 

Crysania turned to the elf with a dismayed gaze. Dalamar bowed his head and gave her his best gallant smile. She widened her eyes at the sight and glanced away. “Thank you. I… I would appreciate something warm.” 

Dalamar felt his nerves ease a bit. “Come, my lady, I chose a mixture of lemon balm and ginger I brought from Istar” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently steering her to the hearth. 

Fastening his cloak, Raistlin walked briskly to the doorway, where he stopped and turned to regard his companions. Dalamar finally caught his eye and gave him a reproaching look, glancing towards Crysania. But the expression of the archmage remained cold: his eyes were expressionless mirrors. 

“I must work on the artifact the Master Librarian requested as payment,” Raistlin said in a raspy, cold voice. “I’ll be in my laboratory. I don’t want to be disturbed.” He slammed the door shut after leaving in a brisk walk.

“I...” Crysania remained still, stunned. 

“I believe my  _ Shalafi _ didn’t mean to be so impolite, my lady,” said Dalamar in a warm voice. “When he focuses on his challenges, he isolates himself without realizing how it may seem to the people around him. That’s why he always comes up with a solution. But those close to him must be patient.” He offered the cup to the woman. She accepted it with both hands and sat down on the padded chair. 

"Yes, sometimes Raist is just a jerk," grumbled Caramon. "But he can't help it."

The noblewoman heard the muttered comment but ignored it, nodding to Dalamar. “I suppose you’re right. It often happens that wise men are unaware of others’ feelings,” she answered, frowning slightly. 

Dalamar bowed his head sympathetically, “True; they’re focused on greater issues.” 

The priestess’s pink lips curved in a gentle smile. “That’s right. I just want Raistlin to understand that he doesn’t have to deal with his problems alone.... He doesn’t have to isolate himself like that!”

“I’m sure part of him understands that you’re close to him, Revered Daughter,” said Dalamar, keeping himself busy with the fire. “I think it’s possible he doesn’t want to upset you with the weight of his concerns. Sometimes, people like him forget those closest to them, because they confide intimately and instinctively in their understanding and forgiveness.” 

Crysania wasn’t listening to him; instead, she looked with dreamy eyes into the tea’s steaming depth in her hands. 

Caramon made a disgusted noise. He got up and walked toward the door, muttering something like: “Gotta take a leak,” already beginning to loosen the strings of his pants. Dalamar slowly breathed out as he imagined ten ways to kill him in a rather specific vulnerable vulgar situation, then snapped his attention back to the cleric in front of him. 

She had ignored Caramon and was now caressing her holy medallion. “Raistlin probably knows I’ve already forgiven him for his rude words,” she murmured, “and that I will pray to Paladine that he may find peace in his heart. It’s clear I brought him bad news, and he did not get angry with me; in fact, he did not tell me a single word of reproach: he just shut himself away with his anger.  _ I _ must be the one to understand his feelings right away... I shouldn’t have expected him to take care of mine.” 

The elf smiled at her warmly, amazed at how the woman could delude herself. At the same time, a part of him knew ‘that’ state of mind very well. How many times had he himself forgiven Raistlin’s rude words or spurts of unwarranted anger, precisely for the same reason? Love was a powerful tormentor to the minds of people trapped in its prison. 

“I wish I could console him!” she sighed. 

_ Don’t you say... _ Dalamar thought sarcastically. 

*** 

After a few days of uninterrupted work, Raistlin had finally completed the creation of the Globe of Vision - the payment he knew Astinus expected.

The wizard looked admiringly at the crystal ball. It was a beautiful artifact, and a powerful one indeed: once activated, it showed events taking place anywhere on Krynn. It had been surprisingly easy to find in Fistandantilus’s memories the knowledge necessary to create it. 

_ Of course it was easy, _ the wizard thought bitterly.  _ Everything that follows the script to the letter of what has already been done by Fistandantilus is easy, so easy. Only when I want to exercise my free will, everything backfires on me.  _

That night, Raistlin and Dalamar cloaked themselves in darkness, passed through the city of Palanthas, and reached the great Library. Raistlin would have preferred Dalamar not to leave the Tower - there was a possibility that his mere presence might inadvertently change the past and damage his plans - but he couldn’t trust Caramon. The glances h is brother threw the elf were worrying. Both wizards knew that soon they would all travel together and that such opportunities would happen again, but they decided to follow the safer course of action for now. So his apprentice accompanied him, although he remained outside the Library, waiting, while Raistlin entered. 

Walking in the shadows, invisible to the few attendants still standing at that late hour, Raistlin slipped silently into Astinus’s study. 

The Librarian was always the same, always busy writing, his study and furniture unchanged from Raistlin’s last visit. The wizard was sure that the other man had noticed his entrance, but he continued to write his Chronicles anyway. 

The sound of the quill scraping on the parchment was jarring and quickly began to fray Raistlin’s already taut nerves. After five minutes, Astinus put down his pen and looked up at his guest. “Greetings, old friend.” The Librarian said in a deep level voice. 

“Greetings, Ageless One. Here is your toy. I hope you will enjoy it,” declared Raistlin, handing the Globe to the Librarian. 

The man received it onto his palm, regarding the wizard in silence with those cold, emotionless eyes. “Oh, I will, Master Fistandantilus.” 

The Librarian lifted his chin and Raistlin was sure he saw the shadow of a sly smile behind the impassive mask. Astinus sat back and pushed two books resting on his desk toward the Black Robe: the one he was currently writing and another old tome of the Chronicles, already open on a specific page. “Please, sit down. I had already prepared what you wanted.” 

Raistlin approached, leaning over the desk to read the precise and minute script. 

The most recent volume ended with a short paragraph whose ink was still fresh.’ _ As of this date, After Darkwatch falling 30, Fistandantilus brought me the Orb of Vision. In return, I revealed to him the location of one of the surviving Portals: the Portal of Palanthas _ .’ 

The older volume was dated 944 IA - Istaran Age: it had been written before the Cataclysm and seemed to be a commentary on the Lost Battles between the Church of Istar and the Order of High Sorcery. 

‘ _ The Portal of the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas was at the center of the most important events concerning the fall of the Tower itself. The archmage Fistandantilus was determined to keep possession of the artifact and didn’t accept the Conclave’s decision to surrender the Tower to the Church. Unable to participate in the events in Palanthas because he was engaged on other fronts of the clash between Conclave and Church, the archmage led his apprentice – the Black Robe Andras Rannoch, for years already under the control of the Dark One – to suicide by throwing himself from the top of the Tower, cursing it and shutting it down with his dying blood till the day in which its Master would return to claim it. However, the current head of the Conclave, Highmage Jorelia, soon after the destruction of the Tower of Losarcum and Daltigoth and its artifacts but before those tragic events in Palanthas, had already decided on her own to move the Portal before handing the Tower to the emissaries of the Church: she had secretly teleported the Portal to a remote location: the basement of the Fortress of Zhaman.’  _

Raistlin read the paragraph three times, feeling an awful  feeling  of danger lurking in his gut.  _ Secretly teleported. To Zhaman. _ So he had not forgotten the location of the Portal; he had never known it. He had instead forgotten the very fact he didn’t have that information. 

Astinus leaned on the back of the chair, his gaze impassive, twirling the Globe on the tip of a finger. “Satisfied, old friend? Have you recovered from your little amnesia?” 

Raistlin scowled at him, holding back a sharp retort. 

The Librarian noticed. After some seconds of silence, he spoke again. “As you can see, everything runs its course as it should be. But be careful. In the future, such episodes of memory loss may prove dire.” Astinus turned his hand with elegance and dropped the Globe to the ground. It bounced off without breaking and rolled into a corner of the study. 

“As you see, this toy was useful, indeed. It had to be there, and it was. Now it doesn’t matter anymore because it served its purpose. The fabric of time has been respected. The fabric of time is  _ always _ respected, archmage. I hope you will remember this lesson and act accordingly. Remember our previous conversation.” 

While the Librarian was talking, Raistlin’s glare had become more and more deadly. “Very well. Since you have the Globe, now,” growled the mage, “enjoy the show!” 

He turned on his heels and left. 

*** 

“We will leave soon, as soon as we finish our preparations,” said Raistlin softly. His voice was rough after the last coughing fit. “We will enter Zhaman by deceit or by force, but, in any case, that is our destination.” 

Dalamar sat beside the mage at the ornate desk in the study of the Master of the Tower, analyzing the two maps spread out in front of them. 

Crysania had gone downstairs to take a bath, taking advantage of the bathing room at the Tower’s base. Of course, there was no running water, but without a doubt, Paladine would lend his daughter the necessary help. Caramon stood at her door in case of trouble. Thus the two wizards were alone and took advantage of those precious moments to plan their voyage. 

They possessed only pre-Cataclysm maps, of course, since they retrieved them from the Tower library. One map depicted all Ansalon; the other one showed the region of Thorbadin. Raistlin and Dalamar had started to update the maps with all they knew of the post-Cataclysm changes with red ink. It was not entirely accurate, but they had added the most important topographical elements, such as the New Sea. 

“Are we going to ride all this way, or do you plan to use a teleportation spell?” asked Dalamar, studying the area south of Palanthas, which was not very detailed. 

Raistlin shook his head and leaned back on the backrest of the chair. “No, I do not have the strength necessary for a major teleportation spell. Fistandantilus had devised a couple of interesting spells for long travels, but they work just for the caster. Other than that, they are quite costly in terms of magical energy if the arrival point is not prepared beforehand with a magical circle.” 

“I guess nothing remained of his old circles set before the Cataclysm,” said Dalamar, hoping to be wrong. 

“No,” whispered Raistlin, raising his hood to protect himself from the draft entering the window’s broken panels. They had covered it with a tent, but still a gust of wind occasionally made its way into the room. “Even if the gods hadn’t shattered the whole continent in the meantime, Fistandantilus’ magical circles lose their power after ten years.”

“Ten years?” murmured the dark elf, shaking his head in wonder. He knew that those circles usually vanished after a few months. Ten years was an incredible duration for such a delicate spell. “So, no teleportation spells.” 

The corners of Raistlin’s mouth tugged just slightly upward. “Even if I could cast a mass teleportation spell, I wonder if the gods would allow me to use it.” 

Dalamar smiled back. “Would you try it anyway?” 

“Of course, yes,” answered the archmage. “But we are wasting our breath. If I had recovered enough strength to cast such a big spell, you know what I would do.” 

Dalamar’s long fingers played with a crow quill as he cast his lover a glance from under his black eyelashes. “... you would send me away at once.”

“Exactly,” muttered Raistlin, narrowing his eyes. “And this is what I will do as soon as I can.” 

The dark elf sighed. “I know. I don’t want to discuss this  matter  anymore.” _ If the spell fails, then... we will deal with the matter in due time.  _

The two sorcerers remained silent for some minutes, adding little changes to the maps and studying the route, Raistlin’s fragile breathing the only sound in the room. They would have to travel south of Palanthas, crossing the Vingaard Mountains to reach the Plains of Solamnia. The road went straight south, but upon reaching the Southlund, it was interrupted where the New Sea had appeared forty years before. There they would find – probably – the town that would later be known as Newport. There they would hire a ship to reach Caergoth on the opposite shore. From there, Raistlin would travel south through Abanasinia, the Plains of Dust, and, at last, get to Thorbadin and Zahman. 

A sudden realization hit Dalamar, and he raised his head. “Did you consider the hypothesis of reaching Newport by ship, sailing from Palanthas?” 

Raistlin pursed his lips and shook his head. “I did. But the Cataclysm has reshaped the landscape and destroyed the local economy. Even if a ship course covering such a distance already exists – and I doubt that – I wouldn’t trust it. The passage through the Blood Sea of Istar was a dangerous and hazardous novelty during the fourth century after the Cataclysm, let alone now. And to navigate in the opposite direction, around the Ergoth islands, would be as long, complex, and risky. Other than that, we know through the history books that Fistandantilus’s army crossed Solamnia by foot before reaching the Strait of Shallsea.” 

Dalamar blinked and averted his gaze, feeling self-conscious. He should’ve figured that out on his own. “You are right, sorry. I will start making a list of the things we must purchase. I would say, four horses and a pack mule for our supplies.” 

“No mule,” Raistlin interrupted him, tapping his nervous fingers on the desk. “Four fast horses, with big saddlebags. I don’t want to draw the attention of brigands any more than necessary, and I’d prefer that we’re able to move at ease and fast.” 

The elf nodded, resuming his studying of the maps. 

“Azzan Castle” added Raistlin, coughing, “will be our first destination.” 

Dalamar had already heard of that town, although it was not marked on their maps. “Does it already exist?” he asked, trying to remember where it was - somewhere south of Palanthas, maybe? 

“Trust me:” 

“Why do you want to go there?” 

Raistlin glanced up and smiled slyly. 

[ ](https://sta.sh/017omgn9fu3n)

_Greenedera_

________________

Next: Azzan Castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many kudos and thanks to RubiniaChangeMadness for the beta and the help with the translation!


	26. Azzan Castle

Not many fortresses possessed a library, yet this one was impressive. It was in a wing explicitly built for the purpose; specially designed to accommodate rows and rows of dark wood shelves, many books, and few people. It had been constructed by its owner to accommodate just one guest. 

Azzan was a fortified town, boasting a ten-meter-high city wall equipped with battlements and watchtowers. Its castle was small, but carefully renovated since the early years after the Cataclysm. The city wall had protected its inhabitants from enemy armies and bandits that had roamed the countryside after the mountain of fire had shattered Ansalon. 

Today, no one spoke of the previous owners of the castle. The only direct descendant of the ancient Azzan family had died thirty years earlier giving birth to her stillborn son. Since then, her husband had not remarried. Yet the house's stability remained unaffected, for though nobody wanted to speak of it, the new Lord did not seem to grow old like a normal man. But who knew what to expect from a sorcerer? None dared to speak of the past aloud, and so only the oldest men still remembered the turmoil caused by the stranger’s arrival. 

The aforementioned wizard – lord of this place - took on occasion a break from his studies. Turning his back to the desk full of parchments in his beloved library, he used this time to contemplate the countryside from a long, north-facing window. His brown hair, cut short, framed the smooth contours of his skull, and a well-groomed beard lined his jaw. His jacket – cut in fashionable green brocade - had a high collar that, when paired with his tall, thin frame, made the man seem always more stiff and severe than he really was. The Lord of Azzan always hid his neck with such collars or an ascot; only his personal attendant had ever seen the grey scars marking his throat. 

“Markhus.” 

The Lord turned swiftly and froze. 

There stood another wizard at the threshold. Clad in black from head to toe, the newcomer threw his hood back to reveal a sharp and angular face. Observing the silent nervousness of his former apprentice, Raistlin held back a smirk.

Markhus looked just over thirty; he carried twice as many years well indeed, thanks to Dalamar’s lessons in necromancy. Without a bloodstone’s power the effect would eventually wear off, but if he was lucky and careful, Markhus could reach a century of life before his body finally began to fail. It was an age old struggle for every black wizard who sought to play games with life. 

Markhus recovered, closing his book as he stared at the intruder with a scowl. “It’s been a long time,” he said in a low, raspy voice. His guest, with narrowed eyes, summoned up menacing power until the air sizzled and distorted the light. 

“... my Master,” added the Lord of Azzan with a stiff bow. 

“I assume you did well during the Cataclysm,” commented Raistlin. 

A pained expression passed through Markhus’s face, immediately hidden by an impassive mask. “Things went exactly as you planned, Master,” he said in a tense voice. 

Raistlin kept staring at him in silence. 

“Make yourself at home, Master,” Markhus stammered. “I trust you’ve come to take what you asked for. I hope your journey went well.” 

Markhus moved some books, retrieved a chair, and placed it in front of the desk. Raistlin advanced into the room, his black robes rustling quietly around his ankles as the Staff of Magius thudded rhythmically on the polished wooden floor. 

“Let’s talk business, apprentice.” 

*** 

“Not bad,” commented Raistlin one hour later, as he lay the last report on the stack of parchments in front of him. 

The two wizards sat at the massive desk in the center of the library, discussing which and how many soldiers Lord Markhus would give to his Master. Raistlin was genuinely surprised by the number of men his former apprentice had assembled. On that morning at Istar when he had set the wheels in motion, the black robe would never have expected such favorable results. 

LOOK AT YOUR DOOM. 

The voice was never silent for long. Raistlin kept his mental barriers high against the relentless otherworldly assault of the mysterious “presence,” but he couldn’t help but hear it anyway. He kept it at a distance by concentrating on his mental barriers, but it was still there as a distant ring, rather than a painful echo in his head. 

Raistlin was well aware of the reason for his good fortune regarding the army. The fabric of destiny was repairing itself; favoring the events that would rebuild the original course of history. 

Markhus had assumed the position of a Solamnic Lord, albeit a bizarre one. The other nobles knew he was not of their nation nor did he descend from an ancient and noble lineage. He was a powerful magic user, and so they were too scared to protest. Forty years before, the young sorcerer had conquered Azzan Castle in a bloodbath. Since then he had fought his opponents ruthlessly, bent on maintaining his position. The new Lord had gathered the best men-at-arms in the area and had quickly accumulated ample riches and foodstuffs from those who, shocked by the Cataclysm, had lost control of their own situations. In those strange and dangerous years following the global disaster, the gap between nations and races had widened. Everyone was busy, trying to save their own loved ones and facing the dire reality of the Era of Despair. The new Lord of Azzan had taken advantage of that, and prospered from it. 

Lord Markhus, knowing his Master would eventually come to retrieve that which he had asked for, had increased the size of his personal army over the past five years, recruiting more men than necessary. To maintain the soldiers and keep them trained, he split the military into smaller, rotating parts with different roles: protection of the castle, routine patrol, community service and small mercenary armies. The latter were ready to be hired out by the highest bidder - usually other Solamnic landlords who wished to use them for the invasion of neighboring castles, or defense of their own lands _against_ said neighbors. 

If Raistlin had come to Lord Markhus in late spring or summer, it would have taken about two weeks to recall all the men from their various positions. Markhus had no qualms about terminating any existing contracts to get the army back home, but there had been no need. It was autumn, and so the vast majority of the military was already stationed in Azzan to prepare for winter quarters. It was barely necessary for them to quarter however, everyone in northern Solamnia knew there was easier prey than Azzan Castle. 

Markhus had a report drawn up by one of the army officers that set aside a subdivision of the troops in case “the event” happened that year: a quarter of the men-at-arms would remain at Azzan Castle for the protection of the fortress, while three quarters would depart to become Fistandantilus’s personal army, along with their retinue of spouses, wagons, mounts, and provisions. 

“I congratulate you on your organization,” said Raistlin, who did not know whether to feel satisfied with the result or unsettled by the ease with which it all came together. The only thing he was sure of was that he had to take advantage of every asset at his disposal. 

TRY AS YOU MIGHT, LITTLE MAGE. 

The Istarian wizard politely cleared his throat to gain Raistlin’s attention. “Master, why Zhaman?” 

To plan the movements of such a mass of men and vehicles, it had been necessary to provide the Lord of Azzan with certain information. Raistlin raised his head, regarding his former pupil with an impassive gaze and cold smile. 

“Why do you think?” 

Markhus frowned and gave his master a penetrating look. He then turned his gaze to the huge map spread on one side of the desk. A little castle placeholder had been set up in the approximate location of Zhaman’s, just north of the dwarven kingdom of Thorbadin. 

“You’re hunting for the riches that lie beneath the mountain,” he concluded. “You want to invade Thorbadin, and in order to facilitate that, you want to re-establish dominion over the ancient abandoned fortress, which just happens to be at the gates of the dwarven kingdom.” 

Raistlin’s smirk etched lines on either side of his mouth. _It’s easy to make up a great goal, the kind that mobs adore_. His cold eyes pierced Lord Markhus, freezing in place. The archmage leaned forward and grabbed his apprentice’s arm in an iron grip. “My purposes are mine alone, apprentice, you should have learned that by now,” Raistlin hissed. He then released the arm and sat back, never averting his unblinking gaze. “But you have done well, and you have put to good use my counsels, teachings and the resources I gave you. You got me what I needed. Therefore, upon parting, I will forgive your inappropriate question.” 

Lord Markhus swallowed, remaining very still, barely breathing. Behind his eyes Raistlin could see fear, but also the gears of the former apprentice’s mind furiously working to process the information he had received. 

The archmage finally broke the eye-contact, releasing his prey and regarding the maps. “Now let’s resume our work. I want to meet your officers.” 

*** 

Without being certain that Markhus was still alive and able to keep his part of the agreement, Raistlin had prepared neither Caramon nor Crysania for their sudden acquisition of a small army. He had thought he would command the military personally, however, when he returned to his companions with the announcement of men, he was in for a surprise. 

Raistlin found his three companions exactly where he had left them, at an inn on the outskirts of Azzan Town. Dalamar and Crysania were sitting at the table over a light meal. Caramon was sprawled on a nearby chair - far enough away to give them some privacy, but close enough to discourage anyone from bothering them. Raistlin walked through the common room, earning numerous suspicious looks as he reduced conversations to half-heartedness in his wake. He reached the pair and softly brushed Dalamar’s mind with a quick thought. 

_I did it, my_ Shalori.

_I had no doubt,_ Shalafi _. I love you._

HE’S LYING. HE DOUBTED. FILTHY TRAITOR. 

Crysania looked up, meeting Raistlin’s eyes with curiosity, and the wizard forced himself to focus his gaze on her. The priestess smiled politely. 

“Welcome back. I hope your business in this town went well.” 

“Better than expected, Revered Daughter,” replied the wizard in a soft voice. “Our journey to the fortress that contains the Portal is long and extremely dangerous, but it won’t be that way for long. There will be an army of men to protect us and help us conquer said fortress.” 

The woman blinked in confusion. “An army?” 

Raistlin heard a sharp intake of breath coming from Caramon. He turned toward his twin and found that the man’s face had brightened. 

The warrior got up slowly and approached Raistlin. He seemed excited, almost moved, his eyes were lit with enthusiasm while he put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing and shaking it slightly. 

HE SHOULDN’T TOUCH YOU. KILL HIM. 

“I can’t believe it, Raist!” Caramon exclaimed loudly. Raistlin cast a quick glance around them, but the people had fortunately decided to move away from this unnerving group of strangers. 

“Please, forgive me for doubting you,” Caramon said. “Forgive me. You wrote it to me! You wrote to me that you would need me to command your armies! I- When I read it, I was in my inn in Solace, and I didn’t believe you. It seemed so absurd, so unbelievable. I thought that- well that you were exaggerating. Instead, you were right! And I want you to know that I’m at your disposal, Raist, I’ll take care of managing the soldiers, I’ll lead them where you want.” 

Those letters. Again Caramon referred to the close correspondence that Fistandantilus had maintained with him: letters that had repudiated Raistlin’s past relationship with Dalamar, and had nurtured Caramon’s old hope of having a trustworthy brother who loved him, and wanted to to travel the world with him. 

Raistlin didn’t remember all the letters Fistandantilus had written. Thinking it nonsense, he hadn’t thought to dig too much into those memories until now. 

Once again, Raistlin had been proven a fool. The Lich had scattered important information and essential details necessary to carry out his insane plan. If Fistandantilus had told Caramon his idea of putting him in command of his army, what else could he have written to him? The wizard resolved to analyze carefully the Lich’s memories that night. 

SUCH A FOOL. 

Raistlin stretched his lips in a thin smile. “I’m glad you understand, my brother. I knew I could rely on you. With my guidance and your charismatic leadership _skills_ , we can lead the army like no one before.” 

Caramon enthusiastically agreed without even asking why they needed an entire army. Was he keeping his promise never to question his twin’s plans again, as he had promised Crysania? Or was he just stupid? To demonstrate his preparedness for command, Caramon began to tell stories of his time as a mercenary - in those five years in which the brothers had separated to follow different paths. 

_It is as a dwarven mechanism falling perfectly into place_ , thought Raistlin. _It was too easy. When things are this easy, the reason is simple: once again the fabric of existence is repairing itself. The skidded mine cart was back on its tracks._

Raistlin knew that, in the original story, Fistandantilus had chosen a man called Pheragras to play general to his army. After he had thrown Caramon into the Arena, Raistlin had seen that name on a list of the slaves owned by Fistandantilus. The wizard had kept an eye on the slave from afar: Raistlin knew Pheragras was a gladiator, but he couldn’t remember how Fistandantilus had come to choose to take that specific slave, just as he couldn’t remember how the archmage had got hold of an army. He had forgotten so many things! 

But it didn’t matter anymore. He had the army - and he had his “general.” 

CLAP YOUR HANDS, CHILD. 

*** 

Four days later, the feared wizard Fistandantilus and his entourage met the officers of the new army. They reached a camp that hosted one of the mercenary companies atop of a hill facing Azzan Castle. It was a semi-permanent camp, that now was a buzz of packing and preparations. 

They met Lord Markhus beside a big tent. It had its flaps open, revealing a table on which a large map had been carefully laid out. In front of the tent, besides the Lord of Azzan, there were twelve other people, all veterans. 

DEAD MEN WALKING, boomed the voice in Raistlin’s head. 

Markhus presented Julius, the senior officer, and then all the rest. After some quick conversation, Raistlin pulled back his hood just enough to stare each of them in the eye as he walked about the tent. He deliberately stepped too close to each of them, exacerbating their discomfort. 

“I am sure each of you understands the importance of this assignment,” he said in a rasping voice. “For the first part of our journey, we will march south and conquer Pax Tharkas, an important fortified stronghold in the Southern Lands. The soldiers can share whatever spoils of war present themselves. From there you will receive further orders regarding our next target, a place called Zhaman. In the meantime, I expect an orderly, efficient, and accident-free journey. For all operational matters, General Caramon Majere is in command. Anyone who disobeys him will deal directly with me.” 

The officers accepted his words in an uneasy silence. They had already dealt with a sorcerer, having been under the command of Lord Markhus, but the fact that their new leader had an even more terrible reputation was disturbing. 

“Yes, sir,” one murmured. The others hastened to add their consent. 

YOU KNOW THEY ALREADY HATE YOU, DON’T YOU? 

The dispositions were complete. Among other matters, Raistlin asked if there were any female warriors in the army that could potentially serve as a bodyguard for Lady Crysania. Within half an hour, two such women had accepted the call. The first bore a figure so tall and broad-shouldered one could mistake her for a man, while the other had the dark skin of the ergothians. Two soldiers’ wives had agreed to become Crysania’s personal servants. The priestess finally had someone to boss around in her daily life, which freed Dalamar of several operational headaches. 

While Crysania spoke with her new entourage, Caramon approached Raistlin. The big man seemed torn between the enthusiasm of finally having an essential role in an army, and the fear of not being up to par. 

“Raist,” he muttered. 

“I already told you, you must call me _Fistandantilus_!” Raistlin bit back in a hiss, turning abruptly and glaring at him. 

TOO STUPID. KILL HIM. 

“Sorry. Sorry. Look, are you sure all this is a good idea? Aren’t we just lying to these trusting people? I mean, we don’t really want to conquer Thorbadin, but they are already convinced that this is what we want to do...” he trailed off, then blurted out: “It’s not them, but _you,_ who needs this war.” 

Raistlin narrowed his eyes as he regarded his twin. “Believe me, Caramon, there will be no lies here. We _are,_ after all, marching towards Thorbadin. The fact that we don’t truly intend to attack is not important. These people now have a purpose, and they will fight happily to obtain the riches from the south. All that they need, the war will provide!”

The moment passed. Officers crowded around Caramon, showering him with reports and information. Raistlin mounted his horse and, accompanied by Markhus, Dalamar, Crysania, and his new guards, returned to the gates of Azzan to work out the final details. 

***

Some hours later, as he walked away from Markhus, Raistlin fought against the devious voice in his mind. Hearing it unnerved him beyond measure;each time he couldn’t help but be distracted by it. 

LITTLE, LITTLE MAGE. A CHILD WITH TOY SOLDIERS. 

Raistlin reached Crysania and Dalamar. The two mages exchanged a meaningful glance, but neither of the two tried to telepathize the other - it had become too difficult a task. 

YOU WILL FAIL. 

The dark elf leaned towards Crysania and gave her a perfect smile - solicitous and kind, almost complicit - as he murmured something in a low voice. The priestess chuckled briefly, then returned to seriousness as Raistlin approached. 

Dalamar had promised that he would treat her well and do everything to enter her good graces, and he had been good to his word. Raistlin knew that it was a nerve-wracking task for the dark elf, even if Dalamar was a charismatic and charming creature when he wanted to be. Crysania was traveling alone with three men, and the lack of camaraderie had made her vulnerable to the temptation of trust. Thus, Dalamar found himself confronted more and more often with Crysania’s growing infatuation with Raistlin. The priestess confided in him indirectly in this regard, but the gist was clear. Dalamar knew he didn’t have to restrain her feelings, and so he subtly encouraged them: often it was he who caused her to see Raistlin’s brusque and insensitive gestures with the eyes of love. The two wizards would do anything to keep her inside the cage of deception necessary to gain her cooperation. 

Crysania greeted Raistlin with a stately nod and gestured towards the soldiers. “How is all this possible? Are they really handing you an army? Are these men at your command? Without them even knowing who you are?” 

Raistlin curved his lips slightly. “That’s it, Revered Daughter. Their Lord owed me a favor for a long time, and as you can see, he hasn’t held back in paying back what he owed. These soldiers will obey my orders.” 

Crysania slowly shook her head at hearing his words. “It just seems strange to me. How can you know that they will follow you faithfully if they have no just cause to defend?” The words came from a face as naive and delicate as that of a lovesick girl who has read too much epic poetry. 

The archmage leveled his gaze at her. “As their purpose becomes clearer to them, I am sure they will embrace the cause,” he said in a deep voice. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

“A deed for heroes...” murmured Raistlin. “An excuse for thugs... to the young, we’ll promise glory in battle. A hope for paupers, food for the starving. Each of them will find what he’s seeking.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Raistlin saw that one of Crysania’s bodyguards had glanced at him upon overhearing his words. She resumed her serious and professional expression almost instantly, but the wizard had caught the glance nonetheless. 

_Yes,_ thought Raistlin. _The reasoning is simple, and the fabric of history repairs itself. Word will spread. Greed will win over everything else._

_War will give them everything!_

_Greenedera_

__________________

Next chapter: Road South

Picture above: the real "Castel d'Azzano"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to WishyWish for the beta and the huge help with the translation!  
> > In this chapter there are several quotes from The Musical "The Last Trial". You can check them in the separate Work on my profile.  
> Thank you for reading so far.  
> As often happens, I put something of myself and my everyday life in these chapters. Azzan Castle is a non-canon place, and the real thing, named "Castel D'Azzano," is a real castle here in italy, near Verona. Now everytime I hear the name of this town, I think of Markhus and Raistlin - not a bad thing, after all.


	27. Road South

The air was cold, the breeze sharp. Autumn was late, and so the travelers were treated to beautiful mild days, where the crisp air made the golden foliage of the birches shine like jewels. During the first week, Fistandantilus’s army had marched swiftly, making good time in the favorable weather. 

On a certain morning, when the sun was masked behind a blanket of milky gray clouds, the south wind swept the plains, splitting the men’s lips and watering their eyes. The dampness soaked every man to their bones, ruining moods and cutting short any conversation that wasn’t strictly necessary. 

Raistlin, who already felt a slight fever coming on, was not spared the misery of the day. He rode, hugging his cloak, his hood lowered on his face. Dalamar, at his side, held the reins with one hand, as he quietly read from a small grimoire clutched in the other. 

Raistlin had worried about the Solamnians accepting the unusual presence of a dark elf - easily recognized by his black robes - but things had gone better than expected. Dalamar was “his servant” - and indeed, no one else had any desire for the position. Of course, when the dark elf finally returned to the present Raistlin would probably have to look for another attendant of some kind, but he would worry about that in due time. As it stood, the archmage couldn’t cast the complex Timespin spell during their forced marching toward the south coast. 

Caramon certainly would have preferred to separate the two wizards. The big man was now suddenly a general - an important person like him had too many other things to worry about than the matter of his brother’s apprentice’s. The oaf now had an entourage of scribes, officials, and messengers always around him, all of whom were happy to deal with him instead of the black-robed sorcerer who was their true leader. 

Dalamar, given his race and fallen status among his people, had several problems with the serving staff, the soldiers, and the officers. One might have thought that a wizard’s personal army would have no issues accepting other races among their ranks, but the soldiers were mostly human, and provincial Solamnians at that. Bigotry against the other sentient species of Ansalon was practically expected. 

The army itself was split in half between former Solamnic knights or their descendants, squires or relatives, and half by mercenaries that called the same lands home.. A few of the hired swords hailed from other human nations - or more likely had been banned from them. No matter where they came from, they were proud men, and under any other circumstances would have found it unacceptable to take orders from a dark elf. No one had dared open insubordination – so far - but it was clear that many could scarcely restrain themselves from reacting badly to the stranger. Raistlin was likewise reluctant to let Dalamar interact much with the others, because he was the only one of their small group who did not have a “role” previously occupied by someone else in the timeline they were rewriting. 

Thus, Dalamar could always be found either in their tent, or silently at Raistlin’s side. In private the elf complained about feeling useless, especially when he watched Raistlin interact with the scum of the soldiery. At least, he consoled himself, the two could be together in their fleeting free moments. 

Raistlin took upon himself a number of operational and representative tasks. When the army was not on the move, the wizard spent most of his time resting or studying in his private tent (a nice improvement due to his position as head of the army). When he wasn’t doing one or the other, he walked quietly through the ranks, observing everything and everyone. His passage was greeted by a wave of half-hearted conversation, restless looks, and held breaths. The officers told Caramon that they had never seen a more effective way of keeping soldiers in line without resorting to punishment. 

Raistlin’s speeches to his new officers had been few; brief, but tremendously effective. With but a few careful sentences he had managed to unleash their greed, and fan their desire for revenge. The troops were a band of mercenaries turned into an army of patriotic avengers, determined to usurp from the dwarves the incalculable riches they held. By now, word had spread that the mysterious sorcerer Fistandantilus had plans to invade the dwarven kingdom of Thorbadin to steal its wealth. Such rumors, when they proved to be true, swelled the ranks of Raistlin’s army all the more.. 

It was all a masterstroke, yet Raistlin could not rejoice. With every step forward, he felt himself sinking into the mud. It felt like a trap set by old Fistandantilus or the Dark Queen: a pit hidden under a treacherous layer of twigs, ready to collapse under his feet. 

Raistlin had listened impassively to Caramon, who told him how useful the archmage’s constant inspections were. The black robe nodded along, but the truth was very different. His walks were a necessary distraction to keep him away from the chasm of anxiety and madness that threatened to overwhelm him every day and night, until he felt as if he could take no more. If he only had but a moment to think! 

The sources of his obsessive and dark thoughts were manifold: the voice in his head - echoing around him in the void, whispering and gibbering; the fragmented memories of Fistandantilus – whose old grim face continued to weave in and out of his mind’s eye; his increasingly vague memories of the history they were rewriting, and the strange way events were unfolding around them. 

Whose thoughts were they? Whose plans were whose?

Astinius’s words weighed like boulders. The pompous, pedantic tone with which the historian pointed out that Raistlin had forgotten actions performed by Fistandantilus gnawed at the archmage, haunted him. In his mind, he heard those unspoken words: _what else have you forgotten?_

_What is it you don’t know you’ve done?_

_What is it that you don’t know that you will do in the future?_

_What vital piece of information could have saved you from ruin?_

YOU TREMBLE LIKE A SCARED RABBIT. 

The malevolent voice in his mind was a constant distraction. So long as Raistlin forced himself to ignore it, the voice’s words remained harmless. But if the sorcerer tried to focus on studying its nature or made any attempt to sever its hold on his mind, the voice became crushing and painful. Raistlin had tried to break the connection once more after the episode in the laboratory at the top of the Tower; it had been just as unpleasant and futile as the first time. 

Raistlin was now certain it was the Dark Lady. While awake, his own courage and determination supported him. But by night he was haunted by his fears. The weaker part of him feared the very idea of facing such an enemy when entering the Abyss. He knew the cries in his sleep kept Dalamar awake. The nightmares were always there waiting for him; they gnawed at him, wore him down until he felt as thin as a sheet of parchment. But he had to fight through it on his own. 

Given the intensity of Raistlin’s mental and emotional stress, his walks among the soldiers were relaxing by comparison. The sorcerer examined their faces - the twisted, crafty ones, and those of the fallen nobility alike. His gaze swept across the crooked, stubbly beards and over cheeks that showed the pale marks of shamefully removed knightly Solamnic moustaches. His cold blue eyes took in the worn leather of their clothes and the dented steel of their armours. For a few moments of such inspection, the black robe could forget the whispering darkness that hammered his thoughts... and the voice that haunted him. 

DANCE WITH DEATH, MY SILLY LITTLE GOD! 

*** 

The tent flap flew open. “Damn them,” Dalamar cursed as he entered. The elf dropped the tray of food he was carrying onto the desk. Bowls rattled, the bread rolled onto the desktop, and the wine flask - thankfully closed - tipped sideways. Seeing the elf enter in such a huff, Raistlin had hastened to clear the book he was reading from the small folding desk that served as the only table in the room. 

“Pay attention!” The mage snapped as he stood up to secure his book. 

Dalamar muttered a curse in elvish, and threw upon the tray two napkin-wrapped spoons he had held between his fingers. 

Raistlin blinked in amazement. It was not like Dalamar to lose his temper. “What happened?” He asked, scowling. 

“Nothing,” Dalamar muttered, unclasping his cloak and tossing it onto the cot. “The usual things.” 

Raistlin narrowed his eyes menacingly, closed the book and placed it on the trunk beside the desk. “Who did it?” 

Dalamar snorted and sat down heavily on the cot. He undid the string that held his raven black hair, fixed what was out of place, and just as quickly tied it all back up. “Forget it. Nothing relevant. It’s nothing new compared to what I’ve heard in the past.” 

Raistlin’s expression darkened. He stepped closer to Dalamar and caressed his damp hair gently. “The fact that you’ve heard these kinds of insults in the past doesn’t mean you have to put up with them now. Tell me who did it.” 

Dalamar grabbed the young man’s hand and brought it to his lips. “No, forget it. Your intervention would only make things worse. Besides, we have other problems at the moment.” 

The archmage’s face lost its menacing expression, becoming gentle and sad. Dalamar had undergone so many humiliations in his life - from when he was a humble servant in Silvanesti to when he became an exile living on the street. Raistlin knew that Dalamar was strong; so strong he had survived in aberrant and unsustainable situations, but that didn’t make this right. Raistlin would have set the entire camp on fire that very moment, just to make that dejected expression disappear from the face he so cherished. Instead he just stood there, caressing Dalamar’s face and hair. The elf’s head leaned against his waist, and their dinner was forgotten. 

Dalamar would soon return to the present, where at least he would no longer have to endure the hostility of those ignorant peasants that were already doomed to die soon enough. Raistlin would make certain that happened, one way or another. Dalamar would be safe again in his own time - he would have the Tower of High Sorcery and, if Raistlin did not return, the elf would become its master. He could finally rebuild his life, gain the respect of his peers, and face all the hardships of the world from a position of power. Raistlin hoped, of course, to be able to return… but who knew. The voice in his head haunted him, his nightmares weakened him, the army situation distracted him, and his ignorance terrified him. 

Raistlin wanted Dalamar out of there, and soon - before anything else could go wrong. The young mage bent down to lay a soft kiss on the crown of the elf’s head. 

Dalamar raised his face to look into his lover’s eyes: the elf’s expression had regained its usual composure, that ageless calm typical of his kind. All the struggles left behind; all his previous nervousness hidden under an emotionless mask. “ _Shalafi_ ,” he murmured. His forehead was smooth again, his almond eyes calm, his thin mouth relaxed. 

Raistlin lowered his hands, placing them on the elf’s shoulders. He regarded his “apprentice” - his lover, his best friend, his long time accomplice. “ _Shalori,_ ” the mage whispered, his voice rough from the emotion, his throat tight. “You are destined for great things. Soon, very soon, no one will dare treat you with disrespect. They will look in your direction, and they will all feel a thrill of terror and awe. ‘Dark Elf’ will no longer be an insult, but an honorific title...” he trailed off, his voice faltering. 

Dalamar’s almond-shaped eyes widened, and he shuddered visibly, blinking. “Why are you telling me this? Did you-?” 

DID YOU SEE IT, LITTLE MAGE? 

Raistlin blinked. “No,” he bit back, realizing with a chill what had just happened. “It’s just what I believe will happen, what you deserve.” He whirled around and took two firm steps to the desk, where he began to tidy up his writing tools and make more space for the tray. “Let’s eat before it’s too late. This stew is bad enough even without lumps of fat congealed from the cold.” 

YOU ALREADY KNOW HOW YOU’LL END UP, DON’T YOU? 

“Raistlin...” 

“No, Dalamar, you were right. It makes no sense to dwell in those skirmishes. As long as we travel together, we should concentrate on your training.” 

YOU WILL END UP... LIKE HER! 

Raistlin wheezed and coughed, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. Dalamar understood he wasn’t going to discover anything else for now, and dropped the subject. 

They dined, they studied. Dalamar showed Raistlin a new addition to his spellbook - a spell from one of Fistandantilus’s grimoires. The archmage gave him suggestions and hints for another one that the elf would be able to study and memorize in the next few days. Raistlin had always been good at concentrating on the task at hand. He put all this attention into Dalamar’s training, and it was much, much later - when they were both lying on their uncomfortable cots - that he thought again of what had happened that evening. 

Dalamar had been right, of course: Raistlin had seen something in his mind when they were talking. A vision. As if looking in a pool of scrying, he had seen Dalamar, tall and handsome, serious and composed, clad in black robes of the finest quality. He had been walking across the Hall of Mages in the Tower of Wayreth, so sure of himself, so proud. Not a renegade, not a castaway. Raistlin had _seen_ him. 

_What is happening to me?_

Raistlin had never been cursed with visions like his mother. Never. He was in control of his mind, of his magic. And so it couldn’t have been a vision...it was just the result of his hopes for Dalamar’s future. _But why... why?_

YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER. 

Raistlin pursed his lips and stared into the darkness of the tent. 

YOU WILL GO MAD. LIKE HER. 

Raistlin tried to shut his mind - to shut out that cursed voice. 

LIKE HER. 

Raistlin’s thoughts wandered restlessly; searching for and analyzing memories, thoughts, dreams. Once again he thought of a trunk full of shards. Some belonged to the first Fistandantilus, others to the Lich who had shadowed him, and others still to Raistlin himself. Who knew who owned the others. 

_These are all tricks. I can’t trust what I see._

_Can’t I?_

How could he manage to keep a shred of sanity in all this disaster? How could he accomplish the most incredible feat in the history of magic--crossing the Abyss unscathed - when he couldn’t even separate the dream from reality? 

_How?_

_Greenedera_

__________________

Next chapter: On the riverbank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to WishyWish for the beta and the huge help with the translation!  
> > In this chapter there a quote from The Musical "The Last Trial". You can check it in the separate Work on my profile.


	28. On the riverbank

Dalamar bent over the bank of a large creek, gathering horsetail. It wasn’t really necessary – he and Raistlin already had sufficient supplies for soap or spell components - but the elf couldn’t bear to be locked up in their tent while the army set up camp. Unlike Raistlin, who was able to stay indoors for hours and hours when he concentrated on his studies, the Silvanesti preferred to leave the gloomy tent every few hours, to breathe fresh air and calm his soul. 

It was almost twilight; the trees cast long shadows, interspersed by bright and vibrant orange beams. The camp’s outer limit was more than five hundred yards away, and the roar of tumultuous waters against the rocks drowned out the noises of the army. The wizard was thus sufficiently isolated in a private bubble. Huge rocks dragged along the riverside by some catastrophe, or perhaps by the Cataclysm itself, towered around the young elf, like cold gray guardians fourteen feet tall. 

Dalamar sheathed his knife, laying the bundle of herbs near the rock on which he had left the bag with his grimoire. He then donned the bag and prepared to return to the camp. Raistlin’s voice suddenly reached him, far nearer than the dark elf could have expected.

“According to the scout’s report, we will arrive at the port of Caergoth within three days.” 

Dalamar turned and raised suspicious eyes to his companion, unnerved by his expressionless tone. Raistlin was a few feet away, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The rays shimmered on the thick velvet of his robes, making the shadows around him even darker by contrast. 

“Good. That was what we wanted,” Dalamar replied cautiously. 

Raistlin emerged from the pool of light, taking refuge in the shadows. His hands were hidden in the sleeves of his black robe; the Staff of Magius in the crook of his arm. His eyes were hidden by his hood. “After we disembark on the other shore of the Newsea, events will precipitate. We could collide with other armed forces at any time.” 

“Indeed, that’s what we expect,” Dalamar said, knowing Raistlin hadn’t gotten to the point yet. It felt like something they were dancing around, slowly edging closer. 

“We will stop in Caergoth to collect supplies and boats before we sail. It could be our last good opportunity for respite. I’ll cast the Timespin spell there, and send you back home.” 

The dark elf bowed his head, clenching his jaw. He knew that the time to leave would come, yet he had hoped to postpone it as long as possible. “The last time we talked about it, you said you wanted to cast the spell after you conquered Zhaman,” he replied coolly. 

Raistlin shook his head and narrowed his eyes menacingly, then glanced away. “I don’t want to find myself in the same situation as Istar, when I thought I could send you home before the end of the Thirteen Warnings. We cannot accurately predict what will happen during the conquest of Zhaman - how we will get in, where we will find the Portal, or what our relationship will be with Crysania and Caramon. I need three days - at least one and a half even if I’m at full strength- to cast the Timespin spell, and I can’t be sure I’ll have them in Zhaman.” 

Dalamar approached his companion, but the other turned abruptly and walked towards the riverbank. The creek was almost a small river; the opposite shore was nearly twenty feet away, and a cloud of spray hovered over the gray and white waters. Raistlin put a hand on one of the gigantic boulders that lined the shore. On their smooth surface, small climbing flowers basked in the last rays of the sun. 

_ I know you want to be by my side as much as possible _ , the human continued, his voice clear in the elf’s mind despite the deafening roar of the water.  _ But I can’t risk trapping you in the past. I will enter the Portal only when I am confident that you will be home safe and sound.  _ Raistlin’s mind was still closed and guarded, so the telepathic conversation could only be initiated by him. 

_ ‘Home’…what a term _ , Dalamar thought.  _ I don’t have a home. Neither Silvanesti nor Solace; not Wayreth, and certainly not the Tower of Palanthas, my prison and torture chamber for two years. _ Perhaps, when it was all over and they were both safe, they could create a new home together, be it at the Palanthas Tower or somewhere that no one could ever find. “You know my only home is by your side,” Dalamar murmured in a low voice, almost to himself, looking away. 

But Raistlin heard him despite the roar of the waters and whirled around, glaring at the elf. “Don’t start.” 

Dalamar’s eyes snapped back up to meet Raistlin’s. The elf raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I didn’t mean to argue. I just made a statement.” 

“I don’t need trivial observations right now; I need your consent,” snapped Raistlin, his brow hardening with anger. Dalamar’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but Raistlin cut him off and turned again. “We have no more time for an argument!” 

Dalamar felt anger building; blood pounded in his ears. He took a deep, centering breath, and closed the distance between them with few quick steps. “Stop getting me wrong,  _ Shalafi _ . You know I’ll go. I was hoping to leave later, but I understand your reasoning, and I accept it. What I don’t accept is that you treat  _ me _ like that,” the elf hissed. 

“If you would stop acting so unreasonable, I would,” Raistlin bit back through gritted teeth, his eyes on the river. 

_ “I'm  _ the unreasonable one!?” Dalamar exploded, raising his voice. “Look at yourself in the mirror! I know we are in a complicated situation, but it is you who are acting absurdly!” 

The archmage closed his eyes and projected his thoughts:  _ Stop it, Dalamar; I’m so tired _ . 

_ I love you so much, _ Dalamar replied; _ why don’t you want to understand that I’m just worried about you? Look at me!  _

Raistlin stared back ; this time their eyes met, and Dalamar saw the dark fires burning in the human’s soul. 

The dark elf stayed there, his hands clenched in fists at his sides.  _ I will go. When we get to Caergoth, I will leave without question. But… These could be our last days together. Let’s not waste them. Don’t close yourself in. Come back to me.  _

Raistlin shivered and closed his mind again. “Leave me alone,” he whispered aloud. 

A breeze blew across the creek, imbuing them with humid, chilly air, as drops raised by the current danced in the last light of the day. 

Dalamar felt a deep sadness tighten his heart. After everything they’d been through together, despite all the inherent difficulties between their races and the dark events of their existence, he could not accept this. Their relationship could have ended after only three days if Raistlin had failed in his journey through the Abyss, yet still they were so far apart. It was as if one of them was already dead. 

Dalamar pulled his lover by the shoulders, trying to hug him. “Come here. Forgive my harsh words.” But the wizard flinched at the touch, remaining stiff and unresponsive even as Dalamar placed a kiss on his temple. When the elf tried to meet his lips, Raistlin turned his head away. 

_ No,  _ he warned silently.  _ We’re too close to the camp. _

_ Nobody will come here,”  _ Dalamar whispered in reply.  _ “There are no paths or trails through the forest that lead here. Raistlin, please, don’t do this. _

But Raistlin pushed Dalamar back and placed the Staff of Magius between them. “Enough,” he said in a rough voice. 

_ You can’t say no to me _ , the elf thought. Without hesitation Dalamar pushed Raistlin against a boulder and grabbed the man’s chin between his fingers. The Staff of Magius was uncomfortably wedged between their chests, but the elf ignored it and pressed his lips against his lover’s. 

Raistlin gasped as he hit the rock, but did not rebel, and after a moment’s hesitation returned the kiss. Dalamar pressed the man’s body harder into the rocky surface with his own. A soft moan escaped his lover’s lips.

*** 

To the archmage, Dalamar’s lips were sweet water that quenched his terrible thirst. All the objections, all the remorse that haunted Raistlin’s mind and poisoned his soul disappeared as the elf’s weight pressed him against the smooth rock. Strong elven hands grasped his face; soft lips conveyed all his love. 

They could have this moment together, of course they could. Why not? They were far from the camp; no one would come looking for them any time soon. They would soon separate, perhaps forever, and so many things could still go wrong on the journey south to take Zhaman. His passage into the Abyss could still go wrong. And Raistlin would be alone. 

So alone. 

Dalamar’s lips brushed kisses against his throat, against the tendons standing out starkly. Their lips met again, the elf’s tongue caressed his. The black velvet robes he wore became too warm, too stifling, and the Staff of Magius was a barrier of responsibility wedged painfully between their ribs. The young archmage wanted to be rid of it all; to fall upon the grass, and put all his suffering in his lover’s gentle hands. 

Raistlin closed his eyes to savor the sensations, and to block the garish rays of the sun. 

SO LOVELY. 

A cold, divine voice slithered inside Raistlin’s brain. In the darkness behind his eyelids, the mage saw a majestic woman with a sharp face and full lips. Her shiny black hair fell over her dragon-scaled dress. She half-reclined on a throne of bones and blades where she was laughing with abandon; gloating, leering. Her eyes pierced him like a thousand black stars. 

_ You, Raistlin thought confusedly.  _ _ You appear whenever you sense a weakness. _

She smiled. 

FORGET YOURSELF, AND FORGET YOUR GOAL!

Crystalline understanding swept through Raistlin like a magical jolt. He saw many futures in those words,  one after the other , each more disastrous than the last. With his mind’s eye and conventional sight, he caught a glimpse of white robes between the trees.

Crysania, watching the two mages. 

Panic. All the futures Raistlin had seen were rapidly vanishing from his mind, yet he knew that one of them could still prevent the upcoming catastrophe. Just one. Raistlin hardened his grip on the Staff of Magius and used it to throw Dalamar back, breaking their embrace. 

_ Crysania saw us. Be silent!  _ “How dare you!” Raistlin screeched, his voice breaking. “How dare you lay your hands on your Master!” 

Dalamar widened his eyes and started to turn his head. 

_ No! Don’t!  _ Thought the archmage desperately. Raistlin hit the ground with the tip of the Staff of Magius, and a magical shockwave knocked Dalamar to the ground. The dark elf fell backward and gasped, both from shock and surprise. 

_ Dalamar, forgive me. Leave it to me _ , shouted the archmage to the dark elf’s mind, trying to convey all his desperate determination to do the one thing that could still save them. “I welcomed you, despite all your mistakes! I taught you what I know! I brought you here to serve me, and you repay me  like this ?”

Raistlin’s accusation cut the air like a whip. Dalamar was pale, scared stiff. He sat up, massaging his right wrist and fixating his gaze on Raistlin's. The elf’s clear eyes were bewildered, his cheeks flushed, and his hair disheveled. So vulnerable. 

Raistlin felt the dark elf trying to reach him at the edge of his mind, but he could not hear it through the rush of blood pulsing in his ears. Something was amiss; they weren’t in the right timeline yet. There was something else they needed to do, and he had not the time to explain to Dalamar what it was. 

_ Forgive me. It’s necessary.  _

With dangerous ease, Raistlin grabbed the elf’s will and  _ bent  _ it to his own, taking control of the elf’s body.  Dalamar’s mind was usually disciplined and well-guarded, but the attack was from an unexpected direction, and he was in no position to resist. The treacherous blow caught the Silvanesti entirely off guard. Like a puppeteer, Raistlin made Dalamar jerk forward, bending to his knees, and grab the hem of Raistlin’s black robes. The elf's eyes were two pools of pure horror. 

“Master, I did it for love!” Dalamar cried loudly, a thick elven accent lacing his words. 

“It is not for the flesh  that we do what we do, apprentice, but for a higher purpose!” Raistlin replied in a  stentorian  voice that taxed his physical reserves. He was on edge, and the bile bit the back of his parched throat. “It is with love for the world and for magic itself that we can find the strength to change the order of things, and defeat the Dark Queen. If your spirit is so sundered that you cannot understand this , then begone!” 

“M-Mast-er!” stammered Dalamar compulsively through gritted teeth. 

“Go! Get out of my sight! Stay out of my way until I can get rid of you!” croaked Raistlin, who could barely speak, but made an effort to raise his voice for the benefit of his audience. Crysania still stared at the scene, her pale face barely peeking out from behind a nearby tree. 

Raistlin released his hold on Dalamar’s mind. The Silvanesti fell back, panting, and gave him a look of such deep betrayal that, for a moment, the archmage wondered if he hadn’t made the biggest mistake of his life. 

_ Dalamar, please forgive me. I had to. Go back to our tent, wait for me there. I’ll explain everything to you once I’m back.  _

Dalamar continued to function purely by force of will. Breathing heavily, the dark elf rose to his feet and, without bothering to clean the dirt and the leaves from his black robes, ran away. Raistlin waited for a telepathic comment, be it an affirmation or a curse, but nothing ever came. The footsteps of his companion vanished in the distance, devoured by the roar of the creek. The sun was low now, but it pierced him still, wounding his vision as much as it had before. He glanced out into the woods, but couldn’t see if the priestess was still there. 

_ What did I just do?  _

A violent coughing fit shook him. He couldn’t stop; his windpipe closed and he found himself barely able to breathe. The anxiety and the regret made his muscles spasm painfully in his throat. The young man leaned with exhaustion on the nearest boulder in hopes of regaining his balance, and concentrated his effort on even breathing. 

Light, feminine footsteps crunched on the dry leaves . 

“I would never have expected something like this from Dalamar. But maybe I should not be too surprised,” Crysania remarked with surprising calm. “Here, you can rinse your mouth out with this.” 

Raistlin raised his head and saw the priestess hold out a little waterskin. Filling the small vessel with clean water from upstream was probably the whole reason she had come to this place. She regarded the Black Robe with clear eyes and a serene expression, though her cheeks were slightly flushed. Raistlin straightened slowly and held her gaze.

_ Very well. Place your bet, player. _

_ Greenedera _

_ _____________ _

_ Next chapter: Scattered leaves _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to WishyWish for the beta and the huge help with the translation!


	29. Scattered leaves

“You witnessed that scene,” Raistlin croaked, then coughed again, glancing at the Revered Daughter. Crysania looked composed and self-righteous as she handed him her canteen. While the creek rumbled its perpetual song, a gentle breeze moved a strand of black hair over her forehead, and the falling leaves swirled around the white cleric and the black wizard.

Crysania’s pink lips curved in a rueful smile. “Unfortunately. I didn’t want to meddle, but when I saw him physically...  _ attack _ you, I thought maybe you might need help,” she replied, blushing and lowering her eyes. 

Raistlin took the canteen, peering carefully at the priestess. Her face was pale except for two splashes of color on her cheeks. Her grey eyes were almost blue with excitement. She looked ... inspired. 

“Thank you,” replied the archmage slowly, narrowing his eyes. “I was caught by surprise. But I was never in danger.  There is no comparison between us; my apprentice is much less powerful than me.” 

As the young mage drank in small sips, the woman sighed, her hands clasped in her lap. “No, of course, but physically he’s stronger, and... I don’t know. He often gave me the impression of being a fighter.” 

Raistlin handed the waterskin back to the Revered Daughter, letting her talk. The woman’s delicate eyebrows furrowed as she pondered aloud, indignation seeping through her voice. “I  _ knew _ he was fascinated with you. But I thought it was just the platonic admiration of a student for his master, something I’ve seen happen often, and that I have felt in the past myself as well… for Elistan. But in my case, it was just that, admiration. I didn’t think your apprentice would take it to the physical level, going so far as not to pay you the due respect and... and approach you without your consent.” 

Raistlin’s face was stony. He made an effort to soften his expression and shook his head. “I wasn’t aware either. I was too focused on our mission.” 

“As you should be, you are so wise and detached from such lower feelings! People like  _ us  _ cannot allow themselves to be distracted by trivial things like physical attraction,” Crysania said, and had the good grace of blushing, even if those rosy cheeks might also be due to the fervor with which she spoke. Indeed, her level of hypocrisy was reaching indescribable heights.

_ Good. Perhaps there is still hope for us. _ “You are right, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin agreed, and when the priestess reached out to take the canteen, he grabbed her frozen fingers with his free hand. The mage gently squeezed them once, then put the canteen in her hand and straightened up. “Even if sometimes it’s not easy.” 

“No, it’s not,” Crysania murmured, her eyes widening slightly. She swallowed and lowered her gaze.

Raistlin smiled, his thin lips parting slightly. 

“You know, the words you spoke, although they weren’t addressed to me, opened my eyes to an important revelation,” Crysania added thoughtfully as she hung the waterskin to her belt. “In that single moment, I reconsidered the path we have traveled together, in all these months. I realized that, although you are only now embarking on a path of redemption of your soul, in reality you have already achieved a great goal in some aspects.” 

Raistlin hid his hands into the sleeves of his robe. He held them fast. “How is that, Revered Daughter?” 

“That’s just it. You are stronger and purer than me. You remain faithful to yourself; your purpose is great!” The woman took a deep breath. “Nothing can distract you from your goals, and this is a lesson I’m still learning. But I believe that I have finally understood the quintessence of this situation. Never mind what our mortal soul desires, all that matters is the greatest goal we can set ourselves to improve the world. We both have this goal, and we both have to focus our every action and decision solely on it. In the past, I doubted and got distracted. But now, now I understand. I shall be worthy of you! I shall show you what a daughter of holy Paladine can do!”

The wizard carefully weighed her words - spoken with controlled passion - and peered delicately into her mind. Incredibly, Crysania’s mind was shielded, inscrutable, as that of any cleric of her rank should be. The priestess had indeed had an epiphany. 

“I am proud of you, Revered Daughter. Your words help me to stay strong on this difficult path we are walking,” Raistlin said slowly, studying the effect of each word to make sure he was acting the right way. 

She smiled, radiant. “Promise me, promise to hold me to the highest standard I can achieve!” 

“It won’t be hard for you, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin whispered. "Together, we will soar like two wings!”

Crysania stared at him in amazement, and for a moment the mage feared he had exaggerated... that he had awakened the infatuated woman again, instead of the ambitious priestess. Her lips had turned red like strawberries, and her cheeks were pink, too. 

Then she inhaled, pulling herself together and lifting her chin. “Together, we will forge the key to a better world.” 

They were interrupted by some sounds coming from the forest: the crunch of leaves and a snapping of branches under heavy boots. 

Caramon emerged from the woods, wearing his travel light armour. Recent conquests had brought small additions of superior quality, and the steel reflected the sun’s dying rays. Along with him was another soldier. A moment later, Raistlin recognised her as one of Crysania’s bodyguards, the Ergothian woman. 

“There you are,” Caramon exclaimed with relief. 

Crysania looked at them contemptuously, straightening her back and lifting her chin. “What is it?” she asked in a detached voice. 

Caramon paused next to her, breathing heavily, looking at her from head to toe without hiding his admiration. The Ergothian guard had discreetly stopped several steps back. 

“Um, nothing, it’s just that you were gone, so I worried,” Caramon replied, puzzled. “You shouldn’t walk away from camp alone, my lady. There are a lot of dangerous people around here. Tomorrow I will leave with the vanguard, and I wanted to make sure everything was in order before leaving, and when I learned that your bodyguard could not find you ...” 

“I can take care of myself,” replied the priestess. “And as you can see, now I’m not alone.” 

Raistlin watched his brother turn purple. “Sorry, I ... I didn’t want to interrupt something private.” 

“It’s certainly not what you think, Majere,” Crysania retorted. “Our conversation was philosophical in nature.” 

“If you do not mind, I think I will retire,” Raistlin murmured, before he lost all sanity, “since we have now been interrupted. Farewell, Revered Daughter.” 

She looked at him regretfully but couldn’t argue. 

Instead of walking away, Raistlin decided to resort to magic. “ _ Nal igira _ ,” he whispered, and disappeared.

***

Dalamar suddenly awoke from his deep concentration and realized he was deep into the forest. After Raistlin had chased him away, the dark elf had wandered without thinking, walking mechanically among the darkening green wilderness. His mind had entered a state of contemplation, and he had carefully avoided thinking about what had just happened. 

The hem of his black robe was damp and dirty, small thorns and leaves had stuck to the cloth as he had walked along trails of wild animals. Around him, the darkness had fallen over the woods. 

The Silvanesti’s elven sight and keen senses allowed him to move at ease in the dark. He heard the distant murmur of the creek somewhere to his left, so he had gone north. The wizard sighed and slowly began to walk in the opposite direction, back towards the camp. 

But Dalamar didn't want to go back to the tent he shared with Raistlin yet. Their tiny folding cots were uncomfortable, so much so that the young elf had often wondered if it wasn't more comfortable to sleep on the ground. The tent's waxed cloth smelled of mildew and didn't block out the rest of the camp's noises and smells at all, making him feel constantly exposed. 

Above all, he missed a private dimension with Raistlin. That quiet determination, that camaraderie they had begun to share again in Istar had been gone ever since they had started their journey south, and to share the same tiny living space, even if just for the nights, was uncomfortable and embarrassing. Furthermore, Raistlin had rebounded, postponed, or ignored his every attempt at some quiet time together, keeping Dalamar at arm's length instead. However, on an intimate level, Dalamar had not perceived a real threat to his relationship with Raistlin. It was a difficult time, yes, but they would come out victorious, even if a bit worn out. 

Yet what had happened an hour ago... that was different. Not so much the fact that Raistlin had refused his hug−after all, his lover had always been reluctant to display affection when he had something else on his mind, had only ever sought Dalamar's closeness when he was calmer. 

No, what was bothering Dalamar was  _ that _ spell. 

_ Crysania saw us _ , Raistlin had yelled to Dalamar's mind. That had been enough to make the elf understand they were in danger, that their whole ruse was at risk of being compromised. All right. They would act their way out of it; they could do it. Raistlin's plan to accuse his apprentice of assaulting him against his will had made sense. 

But why hadn't Raistlin simply warned Dalamar to go along with it? Instead, suddenly Dalamar had been thrown out of his body and relegated to a corner of his mind. A relentless invisible wall had trapped his mind and his thoughts, barely allowing him to realize the actions his body was taking. Raistlin had used him as a puppet, just like Fistandantilus had done to him. 

Dalamar stopped in his tracks, contemplating this realisation. He stared into the night; only the rustling of the branches and falling leaves answered him. 

Was  _ this  _ how Raistlin had felt, for those two years he had been a prisoner of the Lich? It was a horrible feeling.  Unarmed, helpless, Dalamar had felt insignificant . He had thought he was in danger of vanishing altogether, gone like a popped soap bubble. 

A nocturnal bird of prey gave a haunting call. Dalamar shook himself and realized he had been standing still for too long. He was starting to get cold. 

The wizard saw out of the corner of his eye a formation of boulders that formed some sort of cavern, shaped like a hut, open to the north. The triangular-shaped space was six feet in height and length but just three feet deep. Acting purely on impulse, the elf decided that he would stop for a while to think, but not without first gathering some wood for a small campfire. 

Ten minutes later, Dalamar sat leaning his back to the wall of his shelter, a small bluish fire lit in front of him, almost outside the stone walls. The branches he had picked up a short distance from the creek occasionally hissed and spat multicolored flames. There must have been a mineral deposit nearby. 

_ Raistlin took control of my body. _ It had been such a sudden move, practically instinctive considering how little time Raistlin had to react to Crysania's presence. Following that line of thinking was disturbing. Was Raistlin taking up the same habits as Fistandantilus? 

_ Dalamar, forgive me _ . Raistlin had told him that, too. The dark elf added another twig to the fire, frowning and fighting the conflicting feelings building up in his chest: anger, sorrow, pain, love, fear. 

The moment he felt Raistlin seeking his mind, the dark elf shivered. It was a delicate touch, discreet, not an attempted intrusion. Dalamar realized that he had closed and barricaded his thoughts to his lover after the accident, something he had never done before. Raistlin was not trying to read his mind by force but instead gave Dalamar to understand that he was looking for him. If the elf had opposed any attempt at communication and maintained his walls, the other would not have been able to locate him.

For a moment, the dark elf struggled, undecided about what to do. Then, calling himself a fool, he opened his mind to his partner. He had come all this way to be reunited with Raistlin, to be close to him, to find him; even after all of this, Dalamar had no intention of giving up on their relationship. And if things would go wrong, Dalamar would regret not trying hard enough. 

Raistlin's mind remained distant, without attempting to delve into the elf’s, but Dalamar sensed that the archmage was still focused on him, probably using mind contact to track him down. Dalamar would not have been able to do the same, even though he had learned much about mind control during the last two months in Istar.

So _ , Raistlin is benefitting from the knowledge of Fistandantilus. But to what extent? _

It took over half an hour for Raistlin to reach Dalamar. The dark elf saw at first the light of the Staff of Magius illuminate the forest, silencing insects and night birds, causing small skittish mammals to flee. For his part, the Silvanesti simply added another log to the fire and focused his gaze on the dancing flames, emptying his mind and breathing the clear scent of nature. 

Raistlin stopped a few steps away from him. He wore a heavy cape and had his hood up to protect his head from the pungent night air. The cold light of his Staff illuminated the lower part of his face, leaving his eyes in shadow. 

When their gazes met, Raistlin shifted his cloak, revealing a bulky bag hanging from his shoulder. He asked quietly: "May I? I brought dinner." 

Dalamar sighed. "I appreciate the thought, but I think we should talk first. Come, sit down." 

Raistlin removed his bag, laid it at the cave entrance, circled the little fire, and slipped cautiously beside Dalamar. " _ Dulak _ ," he murmured, turning off the light of the Staff and laying it on the ground beside him. 

Once seated, the archmage pulled back the hood and looked at his companion with sad eyes. He extended a hand toward Dalamar, the palm facing upwards. 

The Silvanesti had moved aside to allow Raistlin to sit down, and now he sat embracing his knees to the chest, his jet black hair thrown on one side. In the confined space of the little cave, they sat shoulder to shoulder. The dark elf looked at Raistlin's hand but remained motionless, without taking it in his own as he would normally. Instead, he said: "You owe me an apology." 

"I do, I know," answered Raistlin drawing back his hand, his emotions guarded. "First of all, for misinterpreting your tone when we were talking. Secondly, for doing what I did right after." 

"Say it, Raistlin. You can say it out loud," retorted the elf bitterly. "You possessed me. You used my body and my voice like I was a puppet." Dalamar angrily moved a strand of hair from his forehead. 

Raistlin's expression twisted in pain as he frowned and looked away. Then he gritted his teeth and raised his head, meeting Dalamar's gaze intensely. "I had a vision, Dalamar. There was only one way to get out of that situation unscathed, and it was to make you do exactly that. You must believe me!" 

"You? A vision?" asked Dalamar suspiciously. "How can you be sure it was real?" 

"Just believe me, " answered the other in a sad whisper, then glanced away. 

The elf sighed and shook his head, looking away in turn. "Tell me what you saw." 

Raistlin spoke, staring at the flames; at the same time, he opened his mind and accompanied his words with his thoughts, sharing his visions. "When you pushed me against the rock, I closed my eyes, and I saw Takhisis herself. I never saw her so clearly before. She was in the form of a woman, a queen, and she laughed at me. Then I saw a sequence of possible outcomes of that … that situation. In one, Crysania wandered further into the woods and did not see us.”

Raistlin shrugged and sighed. “She saw us in all the others, and she stopped and stared at us while we kissed. In one version, she watched us make love in the grass with horror and curiosity and then accused me of being a liar and asked me to return to the present immediately. In another, she evoked the power of her God and attacked us with a pillar of fire. In another, she ran to Caramon crying, telling him what she had seen, and my brother would run to us, impale you on his sword and disembowel you before my eyes..." Raistlin's voice broke, and he was unable to continue. When he went to draw in a breath, his lungs failed him, and his airway seized up. A bout of coughing shook him. 

Dalamar leaned his head on the rock behind, staring at the ceiling where the moss had already withered from the heat of the fire. He listened to the terrible spasms of his companion and reflected on his words. 

Finally, the cough subsided, and Raistlin wheezed for some minutes. Then he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "In another, Crysania fled in despair at the thought of being made a fool and fell from a cliff; in another, she was captured and raped by a bandit; in another, she took refuge in a village exterminated by a pestilence. I've seen every possible version; I can't even count them." 

Raistlin's eyes glinted in the light of the flame. His desperate words pieced Dalamar's heart and made him shiver with fear. The archmage went on: "If I had just disowned you as I did, but you had turned to look at her, she would have acted in ten wrong ways. After I threw you to the ground, if you had just kept quiet, she'd have doubts and would have decided to leave us anyway. Only if I made you beg like that, then my words would bring about a change in the woman's mind. And it worked. It worked." 

"I'm glad for you, " Dalamar replied in a level voice. 

"I'm not, Dalamar," Raistlin replied frantically, "I never wanted to do what I did. If I had had time to think about it, I probably wouldn't have done that at all, but Fistandantilus' instinct took over. I didn't even know I was … am ... able to control another person that way until I just did it." 

Silence. 

"Dalamar, I know what you must have felt. Trust me, I'm sorry. I am so sorry. Please. Please forgive me." Raistlin extended one hand as if to take Dalamar's hand into his once more, then faltered and remained as he was, watching the elf. 

The elf threw a twig into the flames. "You know, this scene reminds me of my first day in Istar when you asked me to forgive you for your actions while Fistandantilus possessed you. It was easier to forgive you then because it wasn't you who had acted; it was the Lich. Do you realize the opposite happened today?" Although Dalamar intended to speak in a level voice, his tone became louder until he almost yelled his words. "How do I know it won't happen again, every time you need me to do something for you? I would do anything for you, Raistlin, but you have to ask me!" The dark elf coughed once to clear his throat and suppress the desperate sob trying to break free. He turned his head toward the fire to hide his emotions, letting his hair fall and cover his face. 

"I realise that." Raistlin's voice was almost inaudible. 

Dalamar turned to look again at his lover. "I've already forgiven you. But please swear you'll never use me like that again." 

To Dalamar's surprise, Raistlin's eyes glistened with tears. Those usually cold eyes were now unguarded and vulnerable as Raistlin met the elf's gaze evenly. "I swear it,  _ Shalori, _ " he breathed. 

Dalamar leaned and wound his fingers through Raistlin's hair, bringing their faces closer. Their foreheads and noses were touching, and the elf could feel Raistlin's breath hot on his lips, his spiced scent all around him. Their breaths mingled, both wizards heaving for the violent emotions that shook them . Dalamar drew Raistlin's head to his lips and kissed him between the eyes, feeling the human's skin radiating heat. 

For a moment Raistlin leaned into Dalamar with a sigh; then he shifted slightly, putting some distance between them. The archmage pulled back further to blow his nose in his handkerchief, hiding his face and  composing himself. Dalamar bit his lips and said nothing. 

Once he had recovered his usual severe demeanour, Raistlin lifted the bag and unloaded its content: several packages wrapped in wax paper. "Shall we?" he rasped, holding up an apple. 

Greenedera

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Next chapter: Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @Rubiniachangemadness for the support, the beta and the huge help with the translation!  
> > In this chapter there some quotes from The Musical "The Last Trial." You can check it in the separate Work on my profile.


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